


the pen and the sword

by kingblake, notwanheda



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bellamy gets hurt and clarke is his nurse lmao, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nurse Clarke, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prince Bellamy, Slow Burn, This kind of goes with the canon? Kind of?, graphic fighting, we'll add more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwanheda/pseuds/notwanheda
Summary: Pain exploded across Bellamy’s side. His own sword protruded from the folds of his armor, right where he knew it was the weakest. Roan laughed, deep and guttural, and used one hand to push Bellamy backwards. Bellamy swayed, vision blackening around the edges, and then fell to his knees, mercifully landing on his side. The army behind him roared to life, ready to dive back into battle, but the grounder army was already retreating, whooping and shouting and yowling like cats as they disappeared into the vast woods. Roan planted a boot firmly on Bellamy’s chest, a grin tearing his face in half.“We will meet again,” He said again, darkly serious. He turned and bellowed a victory cry at his army. And then Bellamy’s vision faded, tunneling in on itself and disappearing with a pop as he fell into a void of unconsciousness.- or -Prince Bellamy gets himself hurt. Clarke is his nurse, and she doesn't seem to like him very much.





	1. the fallen prince

**Author's Note:**

> sup kiddoz!! it's been a while since i've written bellarke but i'm excited to get back into the swing of things with this fic!! this fic is a collaboration with my good friend @notwanheda 
> 
> chapters from bellamy's pov are mine, and chapters from clarke's are hers! we hope you enjoy!

The grounders were fast. There was no denying that – it was a fact every soldier had been briefed on, warned about in the days leading up to the attack. They wore little armor and fought with crude weapons; spears, axes, hastily-made bows and blunt arrows. They were easily wounded but extraordinarily ruthless – they fought until their last breaths, and were known to be able to take strike after strike without falling down.

It was only fitting, of course, that the kingdom of Arkadia prepared itself in accordance to these facts. The Arkadian soldiers were each equipped with heavy silver armor that covered them effectively from head to foot. Wicked iron swords and daggers were spread throughout the vast army, sharp and deadly and nearly unbreakable. The armor made them slow, a significant downgrade, but with it most of the soldiers could outmatch and wait out the impressive stamina of the grounders.

There was only one problem, a problem that would serve to be the downfall of much of the Arkadian army – the quick tongues of the grounders.

The whispers spread through the grounder army like wildfire. _The armor is weak under the arms_ , they whispered to one another. _It is much too flexible near the neck and behind the knees._ The grounder army communicated faster than the Arkadian army ever could, and because of this, much of the Arkadian army had become incapacitated within the first hour of the first battle. They dropped to their knees, scraped at their necks, gripped their underarms while stifling screams of agony. The soldiers had all but lost hope, and those who hadn’t had fought until they couldn’t fight anymore.

Despite this, however, the Arkadians had a near endless supply of soldiers to push to the front of the battlefield. Where the grounders lacked in armor they more than made up for in stamina, and where the Arkadians fell short with skill, they had an army that fell onto the battlefield like water from the mouth of a river. It was a stalemate. The clash of swords and spears and shields lasted for fifteen hours, straight through the endless starlit night. When the fighting ended both sides were exhausted, death tolls were high, and med camps were overflowing with sick, wounded, infected soldiers. The two commanders, grounder and Arkadian, met in the center of the battlefield and offered one another their weapons. A reminder, a tradition. They would meet again in battle; if not tomorrow, then someday.

But it was the grounder king, a large man with long, greasy brown hair and a scar-bitten face who betrayed the surrendering ritual. He drove the Arkadian prince’s own sword into the weak spot under his silver arm and the prince fell, broken armor and all. The grounder king let out a throaty cry and turned, along with his army, and retreated into the woods.

It took only moments for the Arkadian army to come to their prince’s aid. In mere seconds he was lifted from the ground and helped to the med tents, where nurses and housewives and even young girls dropped their things to make room for the prince, already feverish and groaning. He was stripped of his armor, cleaned up, had a concoction of chewed up herbs smeared across the wound, and fell into what could only be described as a comatose, his breathing shallow and his dark skin paling to a sickly shade of beige. He was put under a twenty-four hour watch and sheltered under the largest medical tent (he was too ill to be taken back to the stone keep within the mountain). The kingdom had lost the late king and queen to the grounders in almost the same way. 

The people resorted to prayers. They held vigil outside the tent while soldiers stood watch, wary eyes on the horizon.

Watching, waiting.

Meanwhile, soldiers arranged mass graves. Thousands of soldiers, grounder and Arkadian alike, scattered the battlefield and stained the grass red with blood. Grounder soldiers were hauled by those who were fit enough to a shallow grave to the north, near the forest, where they were buried without so much as a goodbye from the Arkadian armies.

The silver-armored soldiers were taken, one by one, and lined up on a large funeral pyre that nearly stretched the length of the battlefield itself and spanned the width of their bustling seaside harbor that hugged the opposite side of the mountain. The pyre was crafted from oak trees with girthy trunks and wide, shivering leaves, cut from the bordering forest that the grounders had disappeared into not hours before. Soldier after soldier was doused in precious oil and posed in such a way atop the pyre that his wounds were covered, as if he were only sleeping rather than cold, stone-faced, dead.

The dead were burned the following night. The kingdom’s inhabitants wept for their brothers, husbands, sons, each holding a bucket of water, ready to douse the fire if it got out of hand.

But the prince still slept. He lay motionless on his bed, and the nurses began to lose hope. He'd lost blood, lots of it. They stitched him up, sewed back what they could. There would be a scar, and a nasty one at that - if he ever healed.

Two days passed. The battlefield had cleared, the vigils had weakened, and the injured soldiers well enough to do so were taken back to the city. The catapults were rolled back into the stone walls. Horses were fed and stabled. Storefronts were reopened, music resumed, and the smell of freshly-baked bread began to waft once more through the clearing air. Men began to patch the iron wall back together, directed under the watchful eye of the Steward Kane.

But then, on a dewy midmorning, where the sun peeked over the hills and cut a beam of light straight through the prince's tent, the prince himself; young, handsome, well enough to heal quickly and without much struggle, opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

  


The room was bright. Almost too bright, in fact, and Bellamy would have grumbled about it offhandedly had he been able to open his eyes. His eyes seemed to be sealed shut, and his limbs felt heavy, like he’d dipped them in lead. The world around him swam, that strange blackness that came with closed eyes pulsing, punctuated with quick bursts of light. He frowned, the skin around his mouth tight with disuse, and sucked in a long breath of air through his nose, nearly sighing. His tongue felt filmy, like someone had stuffed his mouth with fresh cotton. He smacked his lips, brow bunching in the center of his forehead. He sincerely hoped he wasn't dead.

There was a throbbing pain in his side, just under his left arm, and he gingerly reached over with his right hand to inspect it. Air hissed through his clenched teeth as he blindly reached for his ribs, fingers brushing across furs and blankets before finding thick bandages, wrapped again and again around his torso. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand, frowning again. There was a faint buzzing feeling in his knuckles, a low tingle spidering down the back of his hand as sudden and as strange as a bolt of lightning. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes open, and tested his opposite hand, wondering how much he'd be able to move before a white hot bolt of pain lanced up his bandaged side. The result: not much. He winced and leaned his head back, the crown of his skull thumping against the pillows that had been mashed unhelpfully underneath him.

He dropped his arm, finally remembering what had happened. He recalled a snarl, a dark laugh, a promised war before his own sword was plunged into the weak spot in his armor. He’d chosen to wear the same armor as his army, chosen to fight on the front lines with his men instead of watching them die from the safety of his throne room. Kane had called him crazy, but he hadn’t wanted to leave his men to fend for themselves. It wasn’t right. 

But Bellamy refused to think that Kane had little faith in him. Bellamy was a fighter, not a lover, and he'd known how to fight for most of his life. The fact that Roan had taken him off guard was strange in itself, but Bellamy had to believe that Kane knew that Bellamy was capable of negotiating. After all, Kane wasn't truly the king in his place. He merely kept the throne warm while Bellamy waited to come of age, to turn twenty-four and find a wife to solidify his title.

Bellamy lifted his head. Moving his arm was out of the question, but a quick wiggle of his toes confirmed his suspicions – he’d been asleep for a while. His legs were sore, his neck felt strange. The room was still much too bright, and after a quick survey, he found the source of the infernal glare – he was in a tent. The wall was a pale shade of burgundy red, striped with pale yellow and emblazoned every few feet with the Blake family insignia -- a wolf rearing on it's hind legs, mouth wide and yawning with long white fangs. The tent itself was supported through the middle with a long, thick beam, and it was made of heavy canvas, an excellent insulator in the winter but a horrible nuisance in the summer. The canvas flaps were thick, but pocked with holes to allow for easy dismantle and storage. A shaft of sunlight was aimed through one of the holes, but it wasn’t the sunlight was the problem – it was his armor.

His armor, stripped and cleaned, was mounted on a rack just across from him. That particular beam of sunlight was aimed directly at the polished breastplate, which resulted in a harsh glare that reflected straight across the room -- and into Bellamy’s eyes. He frowned and kicked back his covers, nothing more than a pile of furs, and examined the rest of the tent, trying to judge whether or not he’d be better off just turning the other way. But turning meant crushing his wounded arm, and he wasn’t partial to excruciating pain; not to mention that there wasn’t a nurse in sight.

His brow furrowed. Why wasn’t there a nurse? Surely there’d be at least one in the room at all times, given his status, but the tent, heavy canvas flaps and all, was unusually empty. The only sound was the wind whistling through the thick fabric of the walls and his own breathing, a bit ragged. But _damn_ it, that light on his armor was annoying. Bellamy shifted, swinging his legs around the edge of the bed, elevated a few feet from the floor. He was barefoot, he realized, and painfully shirtless. He wondered, dumbly, if the nurses had seen any other part of him, if they’d had to clean him off in places only he was meant to see. He lifted himself from the bed, careful to keep his left arm still as he limped over to the armor.

He reached up with his good hand and adjusted the helmet, the monstrous thing he'd inherited from his father. In place of a faceplate there was a wide, yawning lion's mouth. It framed his face, the lower fangs of the lion's mouth guarding his chin and the upper fangs snapping closed just below his cheekbones. The eyes of the lion were his own eyes, a mask more than a helmet. The top of the helmet was finned, a blade of steel cutting across the crest of the helmet, and for a short moment Bellamy had to wonder why his father had bothered with such a decorative headpiece when it was functionality he should have been more worried about.

But the nurses, he wondered again, the thought poking at his brain like an annoying bee. Had they seen him naked? Nobody, not even his maids, had seen him naked since he was a boy. Not anyone that counted, anyway.

A slow, easy smile spread across his face. Maybe it would get him more favor with the ladies of the kingdom. He used his right hand to push the armor aside, away from that annoying shaft of sunlight. “Oh, Prince Blake!” He said to himself, voice shifting into a high – albeit _bad_ – falsetto. He fiddled with the straps on the armor, left arm throbbing. “You’ve got such a _huge_ d–”

“Your Highness!”

He halted in motion, fingers tangled in leather and metal. Turning his head to look over his shoulder, a sheepish smile frozen on his face, his eyes found a woman hunched underneath the entrance to the tent, a shaft of canvas suspended on her shoulder as she shoved it out of the way. In her hands she held a silver tray cluttered with herbs and utensils, fresh and unused. She scowled at him. “Get back in bed,” she barked.

Bellamy’s brows rose, but he obeyed, shuffling back over to the pile of furs he’d woken up in. He lowered himself onto the far edge, planting his hands on either side of him. Nobody had spoken to him like that since his mother, the queen, had passed away. _Nobody_. Bellamy was surprised to find that he enjoyed it, enjoyed the sting of her tone against his tired brain.

She moved like a hurricane, all easy grace and big motion. She bustled around, setting something, up, and for a moment the big tent suddenly felt suffocating, his every thought crowded with confusion and intrigue.

The nurse set down her tray on a little table across the room and scurried over to Bellamy, dropping to her knees as she cut away his old bandages with a large pair of scissors. She was grumbling something under her breath as she did so, and Bellamy couldn’t help but offer up a confused smile. Just moments ago he’d been talking to himself, completely alone, and now the nurse had managed to fill up the entire vast tent with her presence. All his attention was focused on the top of her blonde head as she stuck herbs in her mouth, chewed them up, and then spit them into her hand, where she then smeared them up the long, angry slash underneath his left arm.

“Christ,” he ground out, air hissing through his teeth. “That _stings._ ” He leaned back, turning his body away from her hand. “Be gentle, woman.”

She stared up at him, light brows drawn down in a scowl. “I’m sorry,” she said, pouting her lips. “Would you like me to let it get infected instead?” She reached out and tugged him back forwards, her hand cool against his feverish skin. He squirmed, moving his hands to shield himself, but she swatted his fingers away. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I have a lot to do today and you are not making it any easier on me.”

Bellamy grinned at her. She stood, face grim, and retreated to her tray, where she produced a mountainous amount of bandages. She crawled onto the bed beside him, rather unorthodox, and moved his chest with her hands to gain a better vantage point. A strand of hair fell from the pile atop her head and she quickly shoved it behind her ear as she unwrapped the bandages and began to wind them around his torso, effectively cutting off his breath. “Not too tight,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him again, her scowl more pronounced than ever. She dropped her bandages and threw up her hands. “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” She growled, producing a needle and thread from the folds of her old brown dress. She began to sew the bandages together, sealing him inside the white cloth. “Men these days,” she muttered, making quick work of the stitching. “Pretending like bandaging is no different than those damn corsets and bodices. Too tight, he says!” She practically leapt off the bed, pocketing the needle and thread. Bellamy’s face heated against his own will. “Too tight!” She laughed, exasperated. It would be an understatement to say he was confused, trying to focus on everything the blonde nurse was doing at once. She blew around the tent like a whirlwind, muttering to herself and tidying up messes that were nearly nonexistent. “Went and got himself stabbed, didn’t he! And now he expects to order me around like I’m not being forced to give him special treatment!”

Returning to the bed, she planted both hands against Bellamy’s bare chest and pushed him back, nearly shoving him into the folds of furs as she covered him back up. “Don’t move,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I have forty other soldiers to see to today, and I trust you’re smart enough to know not to open that wound again.”

Bellamy blinked a few times. “Yes ma’am,” he said quickly, before she set a glass of water next to him and promptly disappeared, tray jingling as she hurried to what must have been the next tent over. The jingling halted. Grew louder again. She shoved her head back through the flap of canvas, cheeks blooming with red.

"Sorry," She said hurriedly, almost as though it pained her. "Forgive me, I'm just having a busy day."

And just like that, he was alone again. Not that he was ungrateful, because the blonde nurse’s fussing had given him the beginnings of a headache. He settled himself in his bed, cradling the glass of water in his hand. He looked at the wall, rippling gently under a breeze he couldn’t feel. Unhelpfully, he wondered how long it had taken the nurses to set up camp, especially a tent of this size, just for him. His stomach turned. Sometimes he hated being royal, hated that people walked on eggshells around him. He wasn't a child, and he wasn't like King Roan -- he wouldn't slaughter his own people just for the hell of it.

He stared at the yawning helmet that belonged to his suit of armor. “What the hell?” Was all he asked it. The helmet stared back, quiet. “What the _hell?_ ” He asked again. Why was he talking to his armor? He scrubbed his hand through his hair. He needed time to think. He’d only been awake for thirty minutes and he already had a headache. That must’ve been a new record.

He leaned back, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

_The grounder king was huge. He wore twin baldrics across his back and knives were sheathed at his hips, at his thighs, tucked into sheaths that hung over his nearly-bare chest. His long brown hair was tied back at the base of his neck and a crown of bone sat atop his head, spires of white cutting through the air and framing his deep-set eyes. His face was almost catlike in nature, long and wide. His tanned skin was crisscrossed with scars, some fresh, some old. A thin layer of stubble shuttered away a strong jaw, a thick, hardy neck. He had a few inches on Bellamy, and though he wasn’t much taller, the sheer muscle mass he possessed was enough to dwarf the Arkadian prince._

  


_King Roan was nobody to be taken lightly. Bellamy had heard stories of the grounder king, of the lengths he was willing to go to keep the grounder clans in alliance. He’d executed his own mother for control of the throne, had hunted down and murdered every last grounder who dared to speak against the crown. For a time before he’d become king, Roan had been banished by his own mother for royal treason. He’d earned back his mother’s respect by some unspeakable act nobody dared to speak about, and many of the wives of Bellamy’s kingdom had made up witch tales, old horror stories they’d tell their children to get them to behave._

 

_“Do you know how King Roan got back into his kingdom?” They’d ask their children. “He stole children out of their beds at night because they refused to go to sleep on time.”_

 

_But nobody truly knew what he’d done to regain his respect. And in payment, his mother had given the king, then a prince, a choice – beat her top warrior in a battle or face banishment once again._

 

_And he’d killed his mother instead. He’d thrown a spear, long and heavy and wide as his own arm, from twenty yards away, and impaled her through the stomach – he’d pinned her to her own chair._

 

_And he was headed straight for Bellamy. In his hands he held his twin swords, long and glittering and wicked sharp, and for a moment a blind bolt of fear shook Bellamy’s frame. He wondered if he’d made a mistake by sending a messenger for mutual surrender._

 

_Bellamy raised one arm in greeting. He and Roan were the only figures in the center of the battlefield, their armies gathered dutifully behind them. The grounder army was rowdy, cheering and yelping for their king, and the Arkadian army stood in clean, polished lines, perfectly still. Roan mimicked the greeting, and Bellamy felt his breath catch. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, but he wasn’t about to let it show. He lifted his helmet from his head, the lion’s mask heavy under his arm. He unsheathed his sword, long and obsidian black._

 

_He and Roan stopped walking when they were standing two feet apart. “Thank you for agreeing to meet,” Bellamy said, schooling his voice into something dignified. Roan grunted and nodded. Bellamy wondered if he even knew how to talk at all._

 

_Bellamy had never been one to take care of negotiations. That was Kane’s job, the steward and caretaker of the throne, peacekeeper between the kingdoms. Bellamy handled war strategy and internal affairs, seeing to his people and their posterity. But it was Bellamy on the battlefield today, and the negotiating had fallen to him. If Bellamy had chosen to stay in the throne room, it would be Kane out here. For a split second, Bellamy wondered what Kane would say. If Kane was watching._

 

_Kane was the closest thing to a father Bellamy had ever had, and he wasn’t looking forward to Kane’s chastisement if Bellamy failed to negotiate a peace. He swallowed hard and lifted his chin towards the grounder king._

 

_“You’re aware of the terms, correct? We both know that this war is pointless. I can’t lose any more of my people and neither can you. Neither one of us can win.” Bellamy let his free hand twitch at his side. His fingertips drummed against his armor, light and easy. Roan seemed to consider his statement, and then he nodded._

 

 _Roan tilted his head. “Your sword for mine.” He said, his voice almost nothing more than a rumble. Bellamy nodded. So he_ could _speak. Roan stared at Bellamy for a moment, then extended his swords, hilts first. Bellamy stuck his own out, mouth pulled into a grim line._

 

_“A promise,” Bellamy recited. The ritual was excessive, but necessary. It was a verbal contract, and it wouldn’t be broken without consequences. “We will meet again.” Roan nodded, weighing Bellamy’s sword in his hands. Roan gripped the hilt firmly, examining the rubies embedded in the soft, worn leather._

 

_“We will meet again,” Roan said._

 

_And then the grounder king grinned, face and scars and sun-baked skin spreading grotesquely across his cheekbones._

 

_Bellamy had a split second to wonder why the king was smiling. And then there was a flash of silver, a whirl of muscle –_

 

_Pain exploded across Bellamy’s side. His own sword protruded from the folds of his armor, right where he knew it was the weakest. Roan laughed, deep and guttural, and used one hand to push Bellamy backwards. Bellamy swayed, vision blackening around the edges, and then fell to his knees, mercifully landing on his side. The army behind him roared to life, ready to dive back into battle, but the grounder army was already retreating, whooping and shouting and yowling like cats as they disappeared into the vast woods. Roan planted a boot firmly on Bellamy’s chest, a grin tearing his face in half._

 

_“We will meet again,” He said again, darkly serious. He turned and bellowed a victory cry at his army. And then Bellamy’s vision faded, tunneling in on itself and disappearing with a pop as he fell into a void of unconsciousness._

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy woke with a start. It took him a few moments to realize he'd dozed off, sitting perfectly upright in his bed. His head had gone slack against his chest and the glass of water he'd been holding had tipped to the side, spilling all over his lap. “Damn,” he said quietly, lifting the fabric of his pants away from his skin. He looked to the door of the tent, half expecting, half hoping the blonde nurse would come barging back in yelling at him about personal hygiene. She didn't.

He was startled, though, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to find a woman rising from a chair to his left, her brown hair tied into a much neater coil on top of her head. She was much older than the previous nurse, her face lined and weathered with years of medical work. “Prince Bellamy,” she said. “Glad to see you're awake.” She took a step towards him, taking his glass from him with one sweep of her arm. She bent into a low bow.

She chuckled. “Don't worry about your pants,Your Highness.” she said with a smile. Bellamy flushed. She must have seen him spill it on himself. “I won't tell anyone.” Her voice was kind, familiar. Bellamy smiled back at her. 

“You're much nicer than my other nurse,” he said sweetly. He leaned his head back as she ducked down to check his bandages.

“I’ll say,” she agreed gently. She tugged at the bandages. “Whoever did these must have something against you. They're way too tight.”

Bellamy almost laughed. “I never caught her name,” he admitted. “She was blonde, though, wore a brown dress. She sounded like she was having a bad day in general.” The brown-haired nurse frowned as she cut through the first nurse’s stitching, loosening the bandages enough that Bellamy could take a fresh breath of air.

“Oh, dear.” Said the new nurse, paling to an ungodly color of white. Bellamy's smile fell.

“What's wrong?” He asked, suddenly concerned. He hoped to everything that she hadn't opened his stitching, that he hadn't somehow hurt himself.

The nurse looked up, a strange gleam in her eye.

“I think your old nurse is my daughter.” She said, wrinkling her nose. The nurse sighed. “She's having trouble with the war. It's her first time working with soldiers.” The nurse tipped her head. “Cranky soldiers make for cranky nurses.”

Bellamy shrugged. It made sense. The nurse swept into a curtsy, her pale green dress fanning out beside her. “Abigail Griffith,” she said. “But you can call me Abby if you'd like.”

Abby crossed the room, rearranging a few tent flaps to keep the mid-afternoon sun off of Bellamy's face. “That was a brave thing you did, Your Majesty.” She said slowly, returning to his bedside with a fresh pair of pants. “You saved a lot of lives with that negotiation.” She shook her head. “I hate to think about what might have happened had you let that battle drag on.”

Bellamy lifted his brows. “How many soldiers are hurt?” he asked. He had a right to know; they were his people.

Abby bit her lip. “Eight hundred.” She said quietly. “We’re understaffed.” She admitted. “We have forty soldiers to a nurse, sometimes more. And there's still not enough of us. Soldiers are dying faster than we can save them.”

Bellamy considered this. “Then your daughter has every right to be worried.” He couldn't say he wouldn't be cranky in her daughter’s position. Especially when her daughter looked like she was a few years younger than him. Bellamy was barely handling the kingdom and he was only twenty-three. If this girl was treating forty soldiers at a time, and she was just barely nineteen, Bellamy could only admire her resilience.

Abby turned away while Bellamy shucked off his own pants, replacing them with a dry pair. “And she was assigned to me?” he asked humorlessly. Her back still turned, Abby nodded.

“Yes. She had thirty-three soldiers when you arrived. The rest of us already had our hands full, so she volunteered.”

Bellamy blinked. “Alright.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, rough with two days of stubble. “Well, tell her to be gentler with her bandaging.” He said with a wink. “She nearly bit my head off when I said something about it.” He chuckled at the memory. Abby looked mortified. “Started rambling about corsets and men.”

Abby gasped. “Oh dear,” she said again, going white as a sheet.

Bellamy rose shakily, taking one of Abby’s hands in both of his own. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “There's nothing to worry about. She didn't coddle me. It was nice.”

Abby relaxed, but kept her eyes on the tent flaps that served as a door. They rustled, and then the first nurse’s blonde head poked back through, significantly more disheveled than the last time.

“Oh, hey.” She said, glancing at her mother.

Bellamy waved at her with his good arm. She frowned at him.

Abby swallowed hard. “Your Highness,” she said, dipping her head. “My daughter, Clarke.”

Bellamy lifted his brows. “Hello, Clarke.” He said. Clarke looked him up and down rakishly, scowl never leaving her face. She seemed to be deciding what to say next, and Bellamy wasn't sure if it was because of him or her mother.

“Hello.” She finally said. “Feeling better?” She asked pleasantly.

Bellamy tilted his head, fighting back a laugh. Clarke was probably the most interesting thing he'd come across in a while -- not counting the whole stabbed-in-the-side thing.

Standing there, in that tent, he promised himself that he'd get to know Clarke. The part of his brain that valued women, the boyish part, knew she'd probably look beautiful without that scowl on her face. The sensible part was simply intrigued, wondering why she, of all people, had decided to treat him less like royalty and more like any other soldier.

“Clarke,” He said. “Send for the steward. Tell him I’m awake and ready to talk.” He sighed, finally remembering his duties as a prince.

“We have some work to do.”


	2. lost and found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She ignored his comment and tilted her head to his bed. “Sit on the bed.” 
> 
> “Is that an order?” He asked, crossing his arms. That was apparently too painful as he flinched instantly and brought his arms back down by his sides. Clarke had to stifle a grin. He obliged anyway, and Clarke began to unwrap the old bandaging. She saw that the cut had partially reopened and she sighed. 
> 
> “I need you to lay down.”
> 
> “Moving fast, aren’t we?” He replied, waggling his brows. Clarke had to wonder how many snarky comments he had in his arsenal. She could bet that she had about a million more. 
> 
> “I have other patients to see.” She didn’t actually, Bellamy was her last for the day. 
> 
> He laid down, and Clarke stood up, assessing the tent. “Do you have any gin?” 
> 
> Bellamy propped himself up on his elbows. “Now we’re really moving fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey kiddos, um, ya'll aren't ready for what we have planned next, so just know that... here's my clarke chapter. enjoy.

The problem with war was not the blood— that could easily be cleaned up. The problem with war was not the politics because those issues never really did resolve themselves. Bitterness cast an ugly shadow after a war was done, a gloom that never quite faded away completely. And that was the problem with war, the fact that war was fought by an entire country, one heart and one goal, until the end. Each loss weakened the beat ever so slightly, until, even if they did win, there was no sound. No pulse. When all was said and done, when the dust settled, only a hollow shell would remain to keep the country alive.

 

Clarke had read about it before, she had seen it before. She was living it now. But this was different, something about this war was different. She felt it the moment her mother woke her and simply said, “Our country needs us, Clarke. Our people need us.”

 

It didn’t seem significant at the time, her place in all of this. She was just another healer, not as good as her mother or the other older women, but good enough. The real test of her abilities came one day when a soldier was stabbed in the side by the King of the Grounders.

 

Miraculously, he was still alive when they carried him to her tent.

 

Her mother and the other women had gone into the battlefield to find men too injured to make it to their tents, or needing to be put out of their misery. Clarke did not want to accompany them. Although the battlefield was only a few paces from the medical tent, she wanted to avoid it at all costs. The smell of death was impossible to wash out, and having them die in the tent was enough to permeate her clothing forever.

 

The tent had burst open with the soldier in tow, carried by the knights he fought beside just moments ago. Upon seeing his dark shaggy head of hair she realized this was no ordinary soldier, but Bellamy Blake,

 —Commander of the Royal Army, Prince of Arkadia, better known among his men and the common people as the Rebel King.  

 

A sudden and sharp feeling of fear twisted her gut. Clarke felt the incredible importance of her job in this moment. And to be fair, she didn’t quite know what she was doing. But she had to do _something_ before Arkadia lost their one hope for peace.

 

She had heard whisperings of a ceasefire, an agreement of sorts, earlier in the day. No one knew if this was true or not, but it’d mean there’s be less blood to clean and fewer cuts to stitch up. A _break,_ that the soldiers and country alike needed.

 

Clearly, it did not work out how everyone had hoped for. And now the only person able to lead them into victory was gushing blood in her tent. The soldiers gently placed him on her worktable as Clarke gathered bandages and the rest of their short stock of medicinal herbs. The two soldiers fidgeted by the entry of the tent.

 

“Can you save him?” The shorter, darker one asked. He didn’t meet her eyes, he only stared at his fallen leader.

 

She looked up, he was trying his best to hide the fear in his eyes. “Maybe. I’m going to try my best.”

 

The taller, lankier one took the shorter, darker one by the arm and led him out of the tent. Clarke was sorry that she couldn’t remember their names, there was just _so many_ of them.

 

Clarke quickly lit the oil lamps in the tent as night was soon approaching. Her mother and the other nurses would be back soon. She took a lamp and placed it next to Bellamy. His chest was rising and falling at a sporadic rate, and the lighting was making him look paler than he actually was. Clarke tucked the stray hairs that had fallen from her braid behind her ear. She carefully removed Bellamy’s armor and then sliced the fabric off of him. Clarke put a gentle hand on his slick chest to feel his heartbeat, barely there.

 

It was then that her mother, the other nurses, young girls that she recognized from the nearby village, and a few other women rushed in. Some had baskets filled with herbs, some had handfuls of bandages, some had bibles clutched to their chests. The tent was overflowing with people. She recognized Steward Kane among them. Clarke’s mother pushed herself to the front and surveyed the damage. She barked some orders at the other nurses as she crushed and mixed herbs in a bowl.

 

Clarke watched her mother work and helped her as much as she could. Abby was the best of them all, she just had a natural affinity for human anatomy and healing. They worked the whole night, the little girls that came in fell asleep in a large chair in the corner of the room. Her mother had retired to their private tent after finishing up his stitching. Clarke stayed. The priest came in at dawn, sprinkled holy water on the prince, and on his armor, and then finally on Clarke. She flinched.

 

“May the healer’s work be blessed as well.”

 

Clarke wanted to tell him that this was all her mother’s work, all she did was pass her mother tools and silently pray under her breath. And stay after everyone else had left. She nodded, and when the priest left, she wiped the water off her face.

 

* * *

 

 

She repeated the story to Finn, but only left in the most dramatic parts of it. She didn’t want him to hear about her doubts in herself and her fear. She liked Finn, he was funny and nicer than most of the soldiers, who just grunted at her in acknowledgment. He was eating the story up.

 

“So, he’s going to make it, then?” She nodded and finished wrapping the bandage around his arm. He had a minor stab wound, which was thankfully healing quickly.

 

“And you’re assigned to be his nurse?” Finn asked, not meeting her eyes.

 

“Yes. I volunteered.” She didn’t really know why she had volunteered, perhaps she felt like she owed something to the prince. Or she felt bad that her mother had so much work on her plate. Maybe it was a bit of both. Finn only raised his brows but didn’t push her any further.

 

“I’ll see you later, Finn. The Rebel King awaits,” she said with a little smirk.

 

“Will you come later? The Grounders have retreated and scouts report that they won’t be back for a couple of days, at least. I’ve heard rumors the prince and his royal guard is going to go back.”

 

Clarke stopped and bit her lip. “I don’t know, Finn. I have a lot of work I have to do.”

He nodded, and Clarke could see the hurt evident on his face. “I get it, it is war after all.”

 

She could only offer him a small smile as she ducked out of the tent. She took a deep, calming breath of the fresh air, and went to Bellamy's tent. It was the largest one, draped elegantly in silver and white, the colors of the Arkadian flag.

 

If the rumors were true, about the prince and his royal guard returning to the castle, then Clarke and her mother would be dismissed until they were further needed. Clarke didn’t know if she felt relief or disappointment. A part of her liked the work, the routine. It kept her busy, but she still missed her paintbrushes and her soft bed. Sleeping on cots was starting to take a strain on her back.

 

Clarke absentmindedly straightened her dress and pushed back the flap opening to the tent. Bellamy was standing in front of the long mirror, _picking at his bandages._ Clarke strode over to him, annoyance already radiating off her in waves. Bellamy might be her worst patient yet.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

 

He jumped and put his hands up guiltily. Clarke crossed her arms over her chest.

 

“I was just— I had an itch.” He looked like a child being chastised by his mother. It made him look younger than his twenty-three years.

 

“So you decided to risk your organs spilling out?”

 

His brows shot up. “Are my organs going to spill out?”

 

She sighed. “No. My mother does the best stitching in the whole country. But you still should not pick at it.”

 

He bowed his head, obviously ashamed that he was trying to ruin the hard work of the women that saved his life. Clarke stepped closer to him, assessing his bandages. He had managed to loosen them, and they looked like they needed to be changed anyway.  

 

“Bellamy,” she gulped, “ _Prince_ Bellamy, you should tell me the next time you’re having problems...with the bandages. Or my mother, if she’s available.”

 

“So I should call for you to scratch my itch?”

She took a fresh roll of bandages from her basket, “I suppose if need be.” If he wanted to rile her up, she might as well do the same.

He pointed at her, “I will take you up on that offer.”

 

She ignored his comment and tilted her head to his bed. “Sit on the bed.”

 

“Is that an order?” He asked, crossing his arms. That was apparently too painful as he flinched instantly and brought his arms back down by his sides. Clarke had to stifle a grin. He obliged anyway, and Clarke began to unwrap the old bandaging. She saw that the cut had partially reopened and she sighed.

 

“I need you to lay down.”

 

“Moving fast, aren’t we?” He replied, waggling his brows. Clarke had to wonder how many snarky comments he had in his arsenal. She could bet that she had about a million more.

 

“I have other patients to see.” She didn’t actually, Bellamy was her last for the day.

 

He laid down, and Clarke stood up, assessing the tent. “Do you have any gin?”

 

Bellamy propped himself up on his elbows. “Now we’re _really_ moving fast.” Clarke rolled her eyes.

 

“I need it to clean the wound that _you_ opened up again.”

 

He pointed to a shiny cabinet next to the mirror. “It’s in there.” She went to the cabinet and opened it carefully. A bottle of gin was on the bottom shelf. She unscrewed the bottle and took a swig.

 

“Now what was that for?”

 

“That was for me.” She grimaced as the alcohol burned her throat. She took a bandage and soaked it in the gin. Then she held the bottle out to Bellamy.

 

“You’re going to need to drink this.”

He looked at her suspiciously but took a drink anyway. He wiped his mouth and handed the bottle back to her. She capped it and placed it on his bedside table. Bellamy moved over to make room for her on the edge of the bed. She took the soaked bandage and hovered right above his cut. She looked up at him.

 

“This may sting.”

 

She pressed the bandage to the cut as gently as she could. Bellamy hissed in pain, kicking his legs up in protest. She gently put a hand on his chest, which seemed to calm him slightly. She always had cold hands, so whenever her patients had fevers, she’d gently cup their faces or place her hands on their necks and throats.

 

“How old are you?” He asked through gritted teeth. Clarke wanted to laugh. He was in pain but still trying to talk to her.

 

“Eighteen. I turn nineteen in a month.” She answered, moving her hand to under his jawline. It was the only relief she could provide until the burning ceded. But Bellamy flinched from her touch and she pulled her hand back as if she had been the one burned. He hummed and closed his eyes. Clarke saw the muscle in his jaw ticking, probably to prevent him from screaming out. This was the worst part of her job, seeing the pain, and not being able to stop it.

 

“How long have you been doing this?” He asked, his voice a whisper.

 

“Changing your bandage? Well, about five minutes, if you could just--”

 

“No,” he replied instantly, “I mean, being a nurse.”

 

“Oh,” she bit her lip, “about three years.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes fluttered. The burning must have stopped. Clarke took a vial from her basket and poured some of the medicine on the wound. He didn’t flinch this time.

 

“Three years? And how long have you been in Arkadia?” He opened his eyes to look at her, and she shivered.

 

“How did you know I wasn’t from Arkadia?” She stammered, looking anywhere but him.

 

“Your Polarian accent is noticeable, you know.” She thought she was doing a good job at hiding it. But Bellamy was attentive. Too attentive.

 

Polaris was probably in ruins since Clarke and her mother had left it. The country was torn apart by a civil war, and the horrors that she had seen were unspeakable. The rebel forces in Polaris had seized the country in a coup against the king. He was executed, and the country exploded into chaos. She wanted to forget about it all, that dark chapter of her life had closed.

 

“I’ve been here for two years.”

 

He nodded, accepting her answer, still studying her carefully. She needed to get out of this tent. Clarke made Bellamy get up halfway so she could finish wrapping his bandage. She pinned it and gently pushed him back down. He was still staring at her in a way that she could only describe as invasive. She felt like she was being questioned by his eyes.

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

He answered as if he knew she was going to ask. “I’m trying to figure out if that little crinkle between your brows is a permanent thing.”

 

She blinked and relaxed her face. She didn’t realize she was doing it, she never did. Her father used to chastise her about it in the same way. “Only when I have annoying patients,” she replied, as coolly as possible.

 

He was grinning again, “Am I annoying you, Clarke?”

 

“Of course not,” she answered, “Your Highness.” She had to add that in for good measure.

 

Bellamy frowned. “Don’t. Call me Bellamy, please.”

 

She nodded and started to put her things back into her basket. “Will I be beheaded by your guards if I don’t refer to you properly?”

 

“No. My guards know about you.”

 

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Alright...I’ll see you tomorrow, _Bellamy._ ”

 

She was at the entrance of his tent when he spoke again. “And if I have an itch in the middle of the night?”

 

She turned halfway around. “Then you know who to call.”

 

* * *

 

 

Four days later, the rumors that were circulating around camp were confirmed to be true. Prince Bellamy, Steward Kane, and the royal guard would be returning to the castle. The army, as of now, was dismissed. The men could return home to their wives and children, and if they didn’t have anywhere to return to, arrangements could be made for them. That meant that Clarke and the rest of the nurses were dismissed as well.

 

The crowd stirred at this news. Some of the older men were happy and exchanged hugs. The younger men looked almost disappointed. Clarke supposed that they were the ones that didn’t have anywhere to return to. All they knew was war. She felt sorry for them because she knew exactly how they felt.

 

Clarke went to visit Bellamy soon after the announcement was made. The tent had been stripped down, everything that set it apart packed away into wagons and sent off back to the castle. The inside was just as empty, except for a bed and a lone prince. Clarke cleared her throat, and Bellamy looked up. He smiled at her, but it was solemn.

 

Clarke knew Bellamy was not happy about their surrender. Even though he did not want to call it that. He had called her an extra time only once. His bandages were too tight again. “This ceasefire makes us look weak,” he had said as she repinned his bandages and pulled his shirt down. But she disagreed.

 

“Sometimes it takes more strength to put your sword down than to keep fighting.” That was something her father had told her a long time ago. Bellamy nodded, but Clarke could tell he didn’t believe her.

 

He was obviously still thinking about it now. But this time Clarke didn’t know what else to say. She rummaged through her basket and took out a vial. “This is for the wound, it’s healing just fine but using some other type of medication may inflame it. I have the recipe written as well, but I gave it to your squire to give the healer at the castle.” He nodded and took the vial from her.

 

“I have something for you as well.” Bellamy pulled a red velvet pouch from his pocket, it bore the golden sigil of the Blake family. Clarke carefully took the pouch and opened it. Inside was probably over 100 schilling, the most money she had seen in a while and triple more than she was expecting to be paid. She looked up at Bellamy, who was staring at her.

 

“I cannot accept this.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s more than—it’s too much, Bellamy.” She shook her head and closed the pouch.

 

“It’s for you and your mother’s services to the Royal Army. Both of you have been of much help,” he said, and then softer, “It’s the least I could do.”

 

“I don’t want your charity, Bellamy.” She tried to give the pouch back to him but he refused to take it. He stood up. He was much taller than her, so she had to strain her neck to meet his eyes. His lips pursed together.

 

“Please take it Clarke.” He was just as stubborn as her.

 

“Fine. But I’m not going to be happy about it.” She put the pouch in her pocket. Bellamy smirked.

 

“I can handle it.”

 

She hummed and looked around the tent. “When are you leaving?”

 

“Tomorrow afternoon. And you?” His eyes were still fixed on her.

 

“Probably around the same time.”

 

He nodded and paused before speaking again, mulling over what he wanted to say next. “Clarke...”

 

But before he could continue, Steward Kane along with Clarke’s mother burst through the tent. Abby bowed and then cast a wary glance to Clarke. Bellamy took a half-step away from her.

 

Kane spoke first, maintaining his regal stature as always. “My apologies, Bellamy. Mrs. Griffith was looking for her daughter.” Bellamy looked between Abby and Kane.

 

“And you escorted her personally?” Clarke almost choked. Abby’s brows shot up. Kane squinted at Bellamy.

 

“I also have to talk to you about something. It is urgent.”

 

That was Clarke and Abby’s cue to leave. Abby curtsied at the two men and Bellamy gave them a small wave. Abby practically dragged Clarke out. “Mother, can you please slow down?”

 

Abby stopped and whirled around to face her daughter. “You have to stop acting like this Clarke.”

 

Clarke sighed and took her mother’s hand. “I just don’t prefer to treat him like royalty, he’s still just another soldier. And I’m a nurse, not a servant.”

 

Abby still did not say anything. “Mother, you’ve seen what too much power has done to men. Something has to humble them.”

 

“And that would be you?” she questioned, looking between Clarke and the closed tent flap.

 

Clarke shrugged. “Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke had a particularly difficult time falling asleep that night. She couldn’t necessarily toss and turn in her cot, she had tried that once and nearly tumbled to the floor. The cot creaked, and Clarke eventually gave up on trying. She looked over to her mother, who was getting her much needed rest. Clarke sat up with another creak and stretched her arms up overhead. She took her cloak and wrapped it around herself before ducking out of the tent.

 

It was a cold spring night, and most of the camp was asleep. Many had long journeys ahead of them the following day. Clarke was included, but she could just sleep on the journey. They had enough money for a proper carriage, thanks to Bellamy.

 

Clarke knew where she wanted to go to clear her head. Finn had shown her this spot a few weeks back, but she had never had a chance to go back. On the edge of the field, closer to the castle was a small hill. It wasn’t too high, but high enough so that you could see the tree tops and faintly, the castle. There was a small guard tower built atop the hill, but it was empty after the Grounder retreat. Someone had built a bench next to the tower. She and Finn sat here and chatted about the war, as that was the only thing she could really talk about with him.

 

He had tried to kiss her that evening. She knew it was going to happen eventually, so she let him down as easy she could. She just wasn’t ready for a relationship, especially with someone who could die at the hands of a Grounder warrior the very next day. He left immediately after, making up some excuse quickly and saying he’d see her later. She didn’t stop him.

 

As she approached closer to the bench, she could see that she was not alone. She turned to leave but stepped on a branch, making her presence very clear. She winced and hoped the person wouldn’t notice.

 

“Who’s there?”

 

Clarke cursed under her breath. “Sorry to bother you, I thought I’d be alone. I’ll be on my way now.” She started to leave before the person called out her name, her full name— _Clarke Elizabeth Griffin._ He especially emphasized her last name. That’s when she finally recognized the voice.

 

She turned around and stomped to the bench and sat on the other side. She kept her arms crossed over her chest. She could see a faint glow coming from one of the castle windows. The servants must be making preparations for the return of their prince.

 

“What do you want, Wells?” She sighed, “Why are you even here? I told you I was returning to town in a few weeks. You couldn’t wait?”

 

He shook his head. He had a faraway look in his eyes. He had once been her best friend, her closest ally until war did what it did best. It tore them right apart.

 

“I was going to wait until morning, but you found me. Clarke, he’s getting stronger,” he said, his voice a low whisper.

 

She inhaled deeply. “That’s not my problem.”

 

He turned to face her, he was angry. “Yes it is, that’s _your_ —”

 

“Don’t say it, Wells. Don’t tell me something I’ve heard a million times already. Why are you telling me anyway? Why don’t you go wake up my mother and tell her?” she snapped back, feeling tears beginning to well.

 

He looked down at his feet. “I don’t want to worry her.”

 

“She’s always worried.”

 

Wells looked up at her, and she could still see the traces of the young boy she used to know from so many years ago. “It’s your country Clarke, you can’t just sit there and watch it fall apart. You’re the _princess_ for God’s sake—”

 

“Keep your voice down!” She scolded. If someone heard them, they both might be executed, or worse. “And it’s already fallen apart. We’re too late.” She got up to leave before he stopped her, gently holding her wrist. She was trembling from the cold and from the conversation.

 

“It’s never too late, and you know that.”

 

She pulled her hand away from him. “Go back to town Wells.”

 

And with that, she left, not sparing a single glance back. Wells might have been right, it may not be too late for Polaris, but it was too late for her. She couldn’t go back, no matter how many times he begged. Her mother and she had barely escaped the first time. And besides, she had more important matters to see to in Arkadia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooohhhhh plot twist..... anyway, leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed this chapter, and follow me on twitter; aifredmorley ;).


	3. griffith medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our protagonist returns to his kingdom and faces the consequences of his surrender.

There were times when Bellamy wished he wasn’t royalty. He knew he was privileged, and he knew it more than anything else he’d ever known. He had been born in a warm bed and had lived peacefully in a castle for the better part of his life. He knew what it meant to be pampered, and yet -- part of him, the small part that yearned for something more than silver spoons and ivory towers -- cherished Clarke’s informality. For as long as he could, he kept her in his tent, relishing in the bark of her voice and the grate of her calloused fingertips against the skin of his chest. She wasn’t gentle. She wasn’t even particularly kind.

And Bellamy _loved_ it.

The morning of their departure from the medical camp was long, boring, and punctuated with quick visits from every nurse, it seemed, _except_ for Clarke herself. Bellamy found himself pacing, skin warm under his black tunic. The wound in his side ached, a harsh pull of pain that accompanied each movement of his arm, but he found it to be a welcome distraction from the jumble of thoughts in his head.

The day previous, Kane and his compatriots had blown into the tent, loud and regal and _intimidating_ , and Bellamy had nursed a headache for the rest of the night. Kane had questioned Bellamy until Bellamy himself felt raw and worn thin, like a dishrag stretched over too many washboards.

“Why did you surrender?”

_It was a peace treaty, Kane._

“Cowardice. The grounders will only see cowardice.”

_Maybe that’s what they need to see._

“How is your side?”

_Dreadfully sore. It’s only a stab wound, after all._

“Don’t get smart with me, Bellamy Blake. You’re not the king -- not yet.”

Bellamy crossed his tent to the front flaps, debating his exit. There were guards posted outside, that much he knew, but once he emerged, he’d have to resume his duties as a prince. Watch over the kingdom, face the shame of surrender. Cowardice, Kane had said. Bellamy’s fist tightened at his side, fingernails cutting little crescent shapes into his weathered palms.

Cowardice, or bravery? ‘ _Sometimes it takes more strength to put your sword down than to keep fighting,_ ’ Clarke had said. It made sense in his head, it made sense on paper. But her voice, calm and clear, clashed with the husky command of Kane in his head.

‘ _The grounders will only see cowardice.’_

Bellamy sank onto his bed, dropping his head into his hands. His breath ghosted past his fingers as he sighed. If anyone had walked into his tent at that moment, they would have seen the weary slope of his shoulders, the deep exhaustion that had settled into every inch of his frame. Luckily, though, he had the good sense to listen for footsteps, and the moment the eager, thumping feet of a nurse echoed outside his tent, he straightened up, stood, and pretended to fuss with the buttons on his shirt.

He frowned at his hands as a tent flap was pulled back. Quiet footsteps halted in front of him, and when he looked up from his false preening, it wasn’t Clarke before him, but her mother.

If Bellamy looked closely, he could almost find the resemblance between them. Not in facial structure, no, nor in body composition – he could only hope she looked like her father, but she hadn’t spoken of him in their short conversations and neither had her mother. She looked like her mother in the sense that she wore the same fatigue. It bent their shoulders, darkened their eyes, tightened the deep lines of worry around their mouths.  
Bellamy nearly reached out to smooth Abby’s worry with the edge of his thumb, but he refrained. He had a sneaking suspicion Abby might faint if he made a move to touch her. The nurse bent her arms towards him, smoothing her hands over the place on his side where he’d been stabbed. A nurse had already been in to clean the wound and bandage it, but Abby’s fingers drifted over the spot anyway, as if she could feel the state of his wound beneath his clothes. Then she pulled away, swept into a curtsy, and offered him a smile that Bellamy could only label as tired.

“The Steward would like to leave as soon as possible. I just came back to double-check everything before the journey home.” The city, and, subsequently, the castle was an hour away, thanks to the unnerving vastness of the battlefield. “He said he’s arranged for a carriage to pick you up.” She took a step backwards.

“And what about the nurses?” He hedged. He knew that Clarke would likely use the money he’d given her to rent a carriage, but he couldn’t help but wonder about Abby’s companions.

Abby clasped her hands in front of her. “Walking. Not many of us can afford to rent a carriage.” There was a strange gleam in her eye as she stared at Bellamy, but he knew it was well-intentioned.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hands dismissively. “It was the least I could do.”

Abby laughed. “You should have heard her last night, after she came back from your tent.” She shook her head, moving to fold up the last of his bedding. “Talking my head off about charity.”

He frowned good-naturedly. “I insisted,” He admitted with a shrug. The movement caused a dull ache to spread across his side, but he ignored it.

His thoughts were drawn back to her earlier comment. “Walking?” He asked. “The city is an hour away at a good pace. That’s with horses.”

Abby tucked a pile of furs under her arm. “It’s nothing to worry about,” She said, eyeing him like she could read his thoughts. “We’re all well rested. Most of the soldiers went home yesterday, so we all slept fairly well.” Her voice was thin, however.

Bellamy nodded. “All right.” He bit his lip, thinking. “Tell Clarke I said hello. It’s time we get out of here.”

Bellamy’s stomach twisted with unease, but he decided to drop the topic of walking. There wasn’t much he could do about the situation, not this far from the city. The next time they came out here, though – because they almost definitely would – he’d arrange for more horses. He couldn’t imagine walking all the way home, not in this heat. Already, he felt sticky, sweat gluing the back of his shirt to his shoulders.

Abby curtsied again and ducked out of the tent, her brown dress disappearing in a flash. Bellamy was quick to follow, lifting a flap of canvas with his good shoulder for the first time since before he’d been hurt. He stepped into the full sunlight, the sun already high in the sky, and immediately winced. The air was bright, brighter than it had been in a while. Even the sky was rejoicing, he thought bitterly.

 _Surrender_ , he heard again. _Cowardice_.

Lifting his good arm to shield his eyes, he glanced around. Men and women rushed around, folding up the last of the tents and saddling restless horses. The grass was trampled, still tinged with red, and a line of carriages was piling up, like caravans in a circus. Bellamy, flanked by two guards, made his way to Kane, who was helping a young man rope a horse into its bridle. “Kane,” Bellamy said. The steward turned, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Your Highness,” He said, bowing shortly. Bellamy almost scowled. Kane hadn’t bothered with formalities the night before. Kane rested a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. Have you got everything in order?”

Bellamy considered this. “Well, I’m not sure where my armor went. Or my sword. I’m sure it was packed up somewhere, though.” He eyed the horse behind Kane, a piebald mare who beat her hooves against the dirt as though she were itching to be on the move. The white fur around her snout was ringed with green and blue, a looping stain that Bellamy could only guess was the remnants of war paint. Kane followed his gaze.

“She’s yours if you want her. We picked her up from the empty grounder camps a few days ago. She’s restless, but we can work on taming her when we return to the castle.”

“ _No_ ,” Bellamy said, almost immediately. He took the reigns from Kane, giving them a gentle tug. The mare swung her wide face towards him, her large eyes bottomless pits of inky black intelligence. “I’ll ride her home.” She blinked at him, eyelashes fanning across the vast expanse of her cheek.

“I’d advise against that, Your Highness,” came a familiar voice from behind him. He turned to find Abby once more, her arms freed of furs. She glanced quickly at Kane before returning her gaze to Bellamy, eyebrows lifted. “The jostle would open your stitches.”

Bellamy grinned. “Nonsense. You’ve got the best stitches in the city.”

Abby flushed, but the look she shot him could have scalped a small cat. “Your Highness.” She said. A statement.

Bellamy dropped his hands in defeat. “Fine. I’ll walk.”

Abby frowned, but Kane silenced her before she could argue his decision. “We need to get going if we’re to make it home by lunchtime.” He turned to Bellamy. “Are you sure you want to walk? We’ve got a carriage waiting for us.” He gestured over Bellamy’s shoulder, and Bellamy turned to look. Sure enough, waiting a few yards away, was a massive silver carriage garnished with the red-and-yellow Blake family crest.

Bellamy grimaced. “I’d rather walk.” He said. He glanced at Abby, mischief dancing in his eyes. “In fact,” he said, “Send out word. Six people can fit in there.” Addressing Abby, he confirmed, “I want the six oldest nurses to ride there.” He pushed his good hand through his mess of black hair, lifting a few strands away from his forehead. “The men can walk. The younger nurses can take the guards’ horses.”

Abby’s mouth dropped open, and for her sake, Kane’s did as well. He did a much better job of composing himself, however, his voice shifting smoothly into an incredulous tone. “I’ll see it done.”

Kane disappeared in a flash of blue robes, and Bellamy was left with a dumbfounded Abby, eyes wide. Bellamy smiled at her, and she closed her mouth, frowning right back at him. She crossed her arms over her chest, and in that moment, she looked more like Clarke than she ever had. “Charity,” She grumbled, and Bellamy let out a relieved laugh as he watched her walk away. He turned back to the piebald mare, who’d fallen still throughout their conversation.

He reached up and patted her nose. “Hope you enjoy walking.” He said to her, and she snorted, ruffling the back of his hair.

 

* * *

 

The journey home was as uneventful as ever. It was quiet, long, and the sun threatened to burn them all to the ground. It was only when the city walls loomed overhead that conversation struck up again, and Bellamy was halted by one of the nurses. She’d brought her horse next to the mare he’d affectionately named Vesta after an ancient goddess, arms stacked with clothes.

“Your Highness,” She’d said, and extended the clothing to him. He recognized the bright red fabric as his officer’s coat. As he’d slipped it over his shoulders, he’d prayed that he wouldn’t suffocate in the heat, and then set to work fiddling with his medals and insignias that marked him as the commander of the Arkadian army.

Now, he stared at the closed gates of the city walls. He couldn’t return home without an entrance, right? After a moment of deliberation, he worked up the nerve to mount Vesta. She snorted and pawed at the ground, unused to his weight, but after a moment her muscles rippled and she settled into an easy rhythm, her body rocking from side to side. His guards, back on their own horses, flanked him on all sides.

The gate to the city cranked open. Bellamy held his breath. And then the cheering began.

It looked as though the entirety of the kingdom had been awaiting his return. Men and women crowded the streets, smiling and cheering, and as Bellamy passed underneath the gate and into the city, he found familiar faces within the crowd -- soldiers he'd fought with, women who’d helped him regain his strength in that old medical tent. Releasing the reigns from his good hand, he lifted his arm and waved, forcing a smile onto his face. The crowd cheered. People threw roses at him.

His horse whinnied uneasily, but he lowered his hand and steadied her with his palm flat against her wide neck. “Shhh,” he whispered to her. “We’re almost there.”

He smiled and waved for what felt like hours. The city gleamed, children danced, dogs barked. And then, all at once, the noise was gone, and Bellamy was dismounted, cooled off, and inside the castle — deep within the mountain the city had been built around.

Taking a good look around the great hall of the stone keep, he let out a breath. Castle or not, home was home. He dropped into a squat and spread his fingers across the marble floors, black stone cut through with rivers of gold and shocks of white.

The floor was familiar, humming with the excitement of the castle. Bellamy felt the tension escape from his shoulders as he felt the grooves in the floor, the easy familiarity it offered. As a boy, he'd played with his father on these floors. He'd sparred with Octavia. He’d spread his books around him and surrounded himself with knowledge with his mother. These floors had been through centuries of kings and their families, and yet, they seemed so personal. So alive.

He gave a start when a hand landed on his good shoulder. Kane gripped his arm and pulled him upwards. “Enough daydreaming.” He said. His hands were hot, even through the thick fabric of Bellamy’s red jacket. “You ceded a war, remember? The council is up in arms about this whole surrender thing. You've got some explaining to do.”

Bellamy grimaced and followed Kane through the masses of milling guards and nurses, sweaty and tired from their trip back to the city. Bellamy would have given anything for a nap right then, his own bed and his own pillow.

But that would have to wait. The crowd parted before the two of them, closed behind them, and never ceased to hum with excitement over the prospect of a stalled war.

If Bellamy had paid close attention, he might have seen that familiar head of blonde hair glaring at him from the opposite end of the crowd. If he had paid close attention, he would have caught her watching him in the middle of his reverie, blue eyes wide with wonder,

But he _hadn't_ , and so he was led to the war room without another thought.

The war room itself was massive. It housed a map of every known territory in existence that spanned the width of the room, about thirty meters. Across from the map was a long table with a nearly identical map spread on top, this one pocked with thumbtacks and pins and figurines. Arkadia was marked with a large red model castle, and the territories around it were defined by their names and most prominent natural resource. Azgeda, King Roan’s dominion, lay to the north, in the snow-bitten forests beyond the Arkadian mountains.

Blinking against the dimly lit room, Bellamy allowed himself to be led to the end of the table. His mood shifted, though when he saw who was around it — heads down, muttering amongst themselves, were Bellamy’s closest friends and confidantes. He stopped a few feet away from them, put a fist to his mouth, and cleared his throat rather obnoxiously.

Four heads turned. Four mouths broke into easy smiles. Bellamy grinned.

“Bellamy!”

Harper was the first to move, throwing her thin arms around his neck as she pulled him into a gentle hug. She was scrawny, her arm only half the size of Bellamy’s own, but she was corded with muscle and had the stamina of a racehorse. Harper was not only his only female soldier, but she currently ranked as one of Bellamy’s best fighters. She was smart, fast, and deadly. And one of his closest friends.

Nathan Miller was the next to approach, extending a hand to Bellamy, which the prince eagerly took. They shook, and Nathan offered Bellamy a rare smile. “Good to see you back on your feet,” he said with a wink. “I missed your motormouth.”

Bellamy scowled. “It beats being so stoic all the time,” he reasoned, but Miller simply shook his head. Bellamy shrugged. “Whatever,” was all he managed, before a new figure found its way into his arms.

Raven hugged him quick and hard before stepping away, a smile pulling her lips apart. “Welcome back,” she said fiercely. Bellamy couldn't help but echo the expression. She looked tired, but it was enough to see that she was smiling. It was a rare sight, and a stunning one at that.

Bryan, a soldier, and Bellamy’s best spy, was the last to make his entrance, offering his hand in the same way Miller had. Bellamy shook it with a nod, and Bryan beamed, turning back to the war table. Bellamy had only a moment to relish the presence of his friends before he was jostled backwards by a pulpy hand, fat and pale.

Fighting a wave of disgust, Bellamy turned to face the culprit. It was one of the councilmen, robed in black and particularly ugly. The councilman smiled toothily. “It's good to see you well, Your Highness. Although I'm afraid we must discuss your surrender.”

Bellamy sighed, turning slightly to wave goodbye to his friends before the councilman swept him away, bringing him to a side room near the edge of the central war room. The next room was significantly smaller, brighter, and overall more cozy. It was the council room, ringed with pillars of gold and plush chairs. Kane was seated at the head of the room, hands like claws on the arms of his chair. Instinctually, Bellamy took his place beside the steward, and the fat councilman settled amongst his peers.

“So,” began the head councilman, significantly thinner and darker than the first. “Let’s discuss your decisions on the battlefield.”

Bellamy propped his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist. He blew a bit of hair out of his eye.

“Your surrender was unannounced to the council and completely irresponsible,” growled a short councilman. A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, but another councilman spoke up, voice dry.

“I think it was completely reasonable,” he said, gesturing at Bellamy. “He saved many lives by calling the stalemate.” Bellamy’s gut twisted, but he remained silent as the council debated over him.

The first councilman, the fat one, scoffed. “Nonsense. He risked even more by surrendering. King Roan takes anything less than victory as weakness, you all know that.” He pounded his fist on his chair. “And what's worse,” he said heavily, “Prince Blake put the kingdom in danger by risking his own life. He could have died, you know,” and again, a ripple of agreement washed through them.

Bellamy ground his teeth. “You doubt my skill?” He snapped. The councilman shrank back, but only minimally. “I knew what I was getting into. I would rather have died than let one more of my men be killed for a war my mother put us through.”

The council considered this.

And then another spoke, this one younger. “Unless I heard wrong,” he said, “The stalemate was mutual. He looked at Bellamy.

“Prince Blake,” he began, “Did you not send a message proposing a surrender on the terms that it would only be a surrender if both sides agreed?”

Bellamy nodded, cutting a glance at Kane. The steward sat motionless. Listening. Waiting.

“So had Roan not agreed, there would not have been a surrender at all?”

Bellamy’s ears heated. “Correct.”

The council visibly deflated, sinking into their chairs. The young one leaned forwards in his chair, black robes falling in heaps around him. His eyes were narrow, his tawny face framed by a sheet of thick black hair. “So you would not have stopped fighting had Roan not agreed to your terms?” Asked the young councilman, confirming.

Bellamy nodded again.

The fat councilman sat forwards, a mountain of flesh and robes. “Did it not occur to you, Councilman Green, that Roan only agreed to the surrender so he could kill our Commander?”

The younger councilman, Green, pursed his lips but said nothing.

“I’m _alive_ , aren't I?” Asked Bellamy, rising from his chair. “Thanks to this city’s nurses.” He swept his good arm out, gesturing across the vast expanse of empty chairs that filled the room. “Hundreds of soldiers tasked to twenty nurses. And I’m still standing before you today. Should that not count for something?”

He paced towards the fat councilman, almost relishing the way the man sunk back into his chair. “Hundreds of soldiers were wounded and stuck in the nursing camps. Many lost hands, arms, legs. They lost the ability to care for their families. Thousands more lay dead on a pyre.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the the councilman. “You spend your life in the castle, Councilman —” he paused, waiting.

“Yorke,” choked the man.

“ _Yorke_ ,” agreed Bellamy, “And you expect to understand the decision I made in halting the war? I've fought with these men. I would die for these men.” He rolled his good shoulder, his stomach hot with anger.

Seeing the confusion on Yorke’s face, he sighed. “Let me put it this way,” he growled.

“Do you have a son?” He asked. Yorke thought for a moment, then nodded. Bellamy frowned. “How old is he?” Yorke swallowed hard.

“Twelve.”

Bellamy pulled his fingers through his hair. “Let’s imagine your son had been on that battlefield. Let’s imagine your son, fresh-faced and innocent, driving his sword through the stomach of an Azgedan.” Yorke paled, an impressive sight considering his natural skin tone. Bellamy took a step back, eyeing the councilmen scattered across the room. He caught the eye of the younger one, but made no move to acknowledge him in the midst of his rant.

“Let’s imagine all of your sons and daughters are out there, because we won't pretend that the grounders would leave the nursing camps standing.” He took a deep breath. “They would all be dead right now, had it not been for the surrender, so excuse _me_ if I don't understand why you're upset. I may have risked my own life, yes, but I would do it again, and again,”

He jabbed a finger at the fat councilman, “And _again_.” He turned to look at Kane, who had the beginnings of a proud smile forming on his face. The steward secreted his pride away with the palm of his hand, and Bellamy returned his gaze to Yorke.

“Because _that_ , my good friend, is what a prince is supposed to do for his kingdom.” Yorke gulped like a fish. “Not just sit around like a fat _toad_ and _wait_ for the war to end.”

The room was silent, and the anger that had been coiled like a snake in the pit of Bellamy’s stomach unraveled like an old string. He let out a breath and took a step away from the circle of chairs.

“The next time you call one of these meetings, I’d like to see these chairs filled.” He said, his voice quieter. “The head servant, blacksmith, stablemaster, whatever. But the fate of this kingdom will not rest solely in your hands.” He considered this for a moment. “Abigail Griffith,” he said firmly. “She’s the head nurse who took care of me. She will sit in one of these chairs the next time a meeting is convened.” He lifted a hand and waved at the councilmen, who were frozen to their chairs with shock. This was not how a prince was supposed to act.

“Good day,” he said, then swept himself from the room, arms trembling with leftover outrage.

On his way out of the war room, Bellamy didn't stop to greet his friends again. His blood was boiling inside him, and suddenly taking a nap seemed like a distant dream. He needed to be busy, to keep himself from doing something irrational. _Never go to bed angry_ , his mother had once told him. _It's bad for your complexion._

Bellamy walked until his feet found the stables. Nestled even farther within the mountain, there was little natural light and many of the unoccupied stalls were swathed in darkness. Braziers lined the black stone walls, massive and bright, effectively lighting the room in the places it was meant to be lit. Horses stamped and pawed as their grooms ushered by, sweeping hay out of Bellamy’s way.

On his trek to the stables, he'd abandoned his red coat on a hallway table. He could only hope that it had been taken up by a servant, but then again — he'd be happy to see it gone anyway. He now only remained in his black tunic, tied at the throat, and his black pants and boots. He'd opted for comfort today, not style.

The stable housing Vesta was sheltered away, surrounded by the castle horses to coerce her into acting civil. The blue and green rings around her mouth still remained, stark and strange against the white of her face. She stared at him through the shadows in her stall, huge eyes wide and considering. Bellamy couldn't help but offer her a smile. “Don't look at me like that,” he said lowly, and she snorted, flicking her tail and tossing her head. He reached out with his good arm and took the rope she was tied to her post with, fingers working to untie it. “And don't laugh at me, either.”

She kicked her hoof, and Bellamy pushed his hand through the long, black and white length of her mane. She was the only piebald in the stable, the only mare of her size. She was a bit large, but beautiful all the same, and Bellamy couldn't help but wonder how she was so wild and yet so tame at the same time.

Bellamy brushed his hand over the curve of her back, feeling the hard muscle beneath her skin, and then turned, gripping the saddle lashed to the post across from her. He groaned, breath hissing between his teeth as the strain worked on the wound in his side, but he managed to saddle the mare without any severe damage to himself. He returned to her front, stroking the space between her eyes, and then he took her lead and began to walk her from the castle, her presence a strange comfort behind his back.

 

* * *

 

He'd led her around the city, making laps through the busy marketplace, waving when he could and smiling at young women as they passed him. He relished in their frightened giggles, the blush that filled their cheeks. That was one thing he'd never get tired of. It wasn't a thrill, however, that he was looking for. As he led the saddled Vesta through the streets, talking to her in a low voice, he kept his eyes on the storefronts, searching for an apothecary, a medicine shop, a doctor’s office — _something_.

He had walked for what seemed like hours when his eyes finally landed on a nondescript stone apartment, squashed between a bakery and a blacksmith. A tiny sign above the front door read _Griffith Medicine_. He would have missed it had it not been for the woman crouched out front, her familiar brown dress whipping around her ankles as she tended to a tiny garden just beside the front steps. He led Vesta over, tilting his head.

“Abby?” He asked, and the woman startled, snapping to attention. Her hands were covered in dirt, her face caked with sweat, and yet she still managed an easy smile as she beheld him, dressed in plainclothes and holding a particularly strange-looking horse.

“Your Majesty!” She said hurriedly, sweeping into a bow. Bellamy shook his head and tied Vesta to a post near the edge of the apartment. She snorted at him, shaking her head, but he gave her a gentle pat on the nose and she stilled, behaving herself.

“Is Clarke home?” He asked. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I never got to thank her for helping me.” Abby flushed, but nodded as she wiped some sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief.

“Yes,” she said. “She's just inside. Would you like to come in, sir?” She bustled up the steps, skirts sweeping out beside her.

“I'll come,” he said gently, “but only on the condition that you call me by my name. Outside of the castle, I'm just Bellamy.”

Abby bit her lip, then nodded. “Okay, _Bellamy_ ,” she laughed, and Bellamy was suddenly reminded of the similar interaction he'd had with her daughter. He followed her up the steps and across the threshold into her home, legs aching.

His first thought was that the home was _cozy_. Where the castle was vast, empty, lined with marble, the Griffith home and workplace was cluttered and cramped and garnished with dark wood and worn mahogany.

Books were stacked on every surface, and the crooked stairs that led to a landing Bellamy couldn't quite see were lined with them, worn and yellow and bookmarked with spoons, papers, herbs, and even old teabags. He had to laugh. It was as if the readers had grabbed whatever they could to bookmark, a trait even Bellamy himself could respect.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” said Abby over her shoulder as she led him towards a room, far in the back of the house. “We haven't had anyone visit us in a while.” She thought for a moment. “Nobody important, I mean. Not like you.”

Bellamy laughed. “It's nothing to worry about. You should see my bedroom.”

He followed Abby carefully towards a closed wooden door, decorated with swirls and flowers of chalk and paint and oil and every kind of art medium avalible. “Her studio,” said Abby. “She's quite the artist.”

Abby knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open, poking her head in. “Clarke?” She asked. “You have a visitor.”

Even from his vantage point, Bellamy could see that Abby’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth pulled into an excited smile. He wondered, for an instant, if his presence would boost their business. He certainly hoped so.

Abby took a step away from the door, nodding, and Bellamy took her place in the doorway, bracing his hand against the wall.

Clarke was seated on the floor in the middle of the room, having changed out of her usual dress and into a pair of plain black trousers not unlike Bellamy’s own. She was barefoot, the sleeves of her gray tunic rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was loose around her face, a change from the tight braid she’d kept it in back at the camp. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and a small smile crept onto her face before it disappeared, squashed beneath concern.

“Bellamy,” she said darkly.

He stopped her with a hand. “Don't yell at me, I'm just here to thank you. I never really got the chance.”

“No, _Bellamy_ ,” she said, rising from her place on the floor. Her eyes were fixed on his wound, and when he looked down, he could see the silky wetness of blood, his shirt clinging to his body.

Funny. He hadn't felt his stitches open.

“Mom!” She called, and Abby was at the door in an instant, sensing the upset in her daughter’s voice. Like a hurricane, the two nurses ushered him towards another room. He was pushed onto a table, his shirt was pulled away from his body, and sure enough, there was a considerable amount of blood was soaked through the thick bandaging.

Abby, ever prepared, cut away the bandages with long scissors and she and Clarke immediately got to work. The pain finally registered in Bellamy’s mind and he let out a low, involuntary groan as Abby’s fingers ghosted across his side. He closed his eyes, breathing hard. He felt another set of hands brush his hair away from his face, cool palms closing around his cheeks. He cracked an eye open to find Clarke hovering above him, her hair hanging in a sheet around their faces.

“Bellamy,” she said. “The last time we did this, you were unconscious.” She cast a glance over her shoulder, fingers tightening against his jaw. “We have to sew you back up. It's going to hurt. A lot.”

He blinked hard, but nodded. He reached up blindly with his good hand, and he was relieved to find her hand snaked through his own. She covered his mouth with her other hand, in case he screamed.

She spoke to him softly, humming, as her mother sterilized her needle.

And then he felt it.

It was nothing more than a pinprick at first, but it steadily grew as needle and thread pierced infected skin again and again. Clarke planted a hand over his chest to keep him still, leaving his mouth exposed.

He whimpered through closed lips, watching Clarke’s face contort in pain as he inadvertently crushed her hand with his own.

And then it became too much — the blood, the needle, the fear twisting in his stomach — and then his vision clouded, rimmed with black, and then he fell.

 _Unconscious_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!


	4. past and present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was another attack, north of the castle. The third one that week. Her father had sent some of their own personal guardsmen to Vaphis, the town under attack, to ‘take care of it.’ Clarke knew most of them would not make it back. The Light army was getting stronger every day, they had a powerful and convincing leader who possessed abilities that one could only describe as magic. Magic was something that everyone thought had gone extinct, but what this man did could not be described by logic. 
> 
> No one could actually see what Thelonious Jaha did, he just did it. There was no cloud of smoke, no sparkles emerging from his fingertips. One minute you were there, and the next you were gone. 
> 
> To the City of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, here's chapter 4. so sorry it took so long. but yeah. bellamy gets drugged. clarke gets some fancy slippers. jaha fucks some shit up. enjoy kiddos.

Bellamy’s eyes fluttered closed—and no matter how many times Clarke called out his name—he would not wake. The pain must have been unbearable. Clarke pressed two fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse. It beat steady, for now. Abby finished her stitching soon after, snipping away the extra thread. Clarke looked up at her mother, her face a perfect reflection of the worry Clarke felt. 

 

Bellamy could stay unconscious for a few minutes to a few days. The skin around the wound was infected, most likely due to malpractice of the head physician in the castle. Bellamy had once mentioned that the man was almost 97 years old, and not only was he going deaf, but apparently blind as well. It would take a few days for it to heal.

 

She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was just half-past 7 o’clock. Clarke peered out the window. There were no guards stationed outside, only a lonely horse. She wanted to scold Bellamy for coming alone and while he still hadn’t healed fully. But she was too worried, and he was too unconscious. 

 

Clarke didn’t know much about the brain, the anatomy books always bored her, but she knew that going unconscious so often in such a short amount of time could not be good. Bellamy had paled considerably since being bedridden. She stood back next to him, pushing his dark curls away from his forehead. 

 

“What do we do now?” 

 

Abby wiped her hands on a rag and sighed. “We have to send for someone in the castle. That’s all we can do.” 

 

Clarke considered this for a moment. Neither of them could leave, and Bellamy was not going to stay overnight. He had nowhere to sleep. Clarke went back to the window and looked across the street. A group of children were ogling Bellamy’s strange horse. Around this neighborhood, one of the poorest in the city, horses equaled important men which usually equated with bad men. And you never bothered the bad man and his horse.

 

Clarke went to her room. Taking a scrap piece of parchment from her desk, she hurriedly wrote a letter describing the predicament and how it was the utmost urgency that the Royal Guard responded with a carriage and a few guards. All she needed was a wax seal, to make it official of course. And she couldn’t find one anywhere. 

 

Abby and Clarke had made one for the little medicine shop they had opened up. It was simple, just the initials GM, but it was a symbol of their new life. Their new beginning. And now Clarke couldn’t find it for the life of her. She opened every drawer of her tall dresser, almost tipping it over at one point to rummage through the top drawer. Clarke crouched down and opened the last drawer. And, as if on cue, the stamp rolled out from the back. Clarke picked it up and sighed. She rarely opened this drawer. It served as a cruel reminder of the life and country she left behind.  

 

The only things she had left from Polaris were her brown riding gloves, her father’s leather-bound notebook, and a blue tattered scarf. They collected dust at the bottom of the dresser, but she didn’t have the heart to throw them away. Clarke shut the drawer forcefully and quickly, causing the whole dresser to rattle. She feared if she kept it open any longer, the ghosts might’ve gotten out and swallowed her whole.

 

Clarke melted the wax, stamped the note shut and hurried down the narrow steps of their apartment. The kids were still outside, throwing kernels of corn at the horse. Clarke walked up to them, putting the letter into her pocket. The kids looked at her strangely. She recognized some of them, Lola and Xander lived right next door and the Deere triplets had come into the shop for flu medicine for their mother earlier that day. 

 

“Is that horse yours?” one of the younger children asked. His voice was lisped, as he was missing his two front teeth. 

 

Clarke bent down and shook her head. “It’s actually Prince Bellamy’s.” 

 

The kids muttered to each other excitedly. This was probably the closest they’d ever be to royalty, let alone  _ the  _ Rebel King. 

 

“I heard he turns into an eagle at night, and picks off his enemies when they’re sleeping!” Lola exclaimed, her eyes bright. Some of the kids nodded in agreement. 

 

“Well, I heard he turns into a lion on the battlefield, and eats Grounders in one bite!” exclaimed another young boy. 

 

Bellamy had become somewhat of an urban legend in these parts. He’d officially risen as  _ The Rebel King  _ a year before she came to Arkadia. Since every nation but Polis—Polaris’ longtime ally—had cut off trade and communications with them, she had no way of knowing how exactly Bellamy coined the nickname. 

 

She turned to the tallest boy, no older than 11 years old. “What’s your name?”

 

“Micah.”

 

“Micah,” Clarke repeated, taking the letter from her pocket, “Would you want to do Prince Bellamy a huge favor?”

 

Some of the younger children gasped and started to giggle. Micah simply raised his brow. “What favor?”

 

Clarke pointed to the window of the surgery room. “You see, Prince Bellamy has been hurt. And he can’t get back to the castle. I need you to go there and deliver this to the first important man you see. It’s urgent.”

 

Micah looked at the letter, then at Clarke, and then at the window. Clarke fished in her pocket for the money she grabbed off her desk. “And this is payment of course.”

 

Now he looked happy. He grabbed the coins from her palm and shoved them into his pocket. Then he looked at the other kids, who were staring at him like he was their very own prince. 

 

“Go now, run as fast as you can. Okay?” 

 

Micah nodded and grabbed the letter before taking off down the cobblestone street. A few of the boys ran with him, probably in hopes of getting a share of the profit, while the others cheered and clapped as the boys faded from view. With all the excitement over, the kids soon began to disperse for the night. 

 

Clarke took a deep breath and prayed that the message would be delivered soon. 

 

* * *

  
  


Clarke returned to a boiling apartment and Bellamy in her bed. She had no clue how her mother had managed to carry Bellamy into the bed on her own, but she was more worried about how  _ hot  _ it was. Abby added wood to the fireplace, raising the temperature by at least 20 degrees. She swore this method could even raise the dead. Clarke wasn’t too sure about her mother’s theory, but she didn’t want to argue with her. Once Abby had her mind set on something, no one could get her to change her mind. 

 

Clarke opened the window in her room to let in some air and looked over at Bellamy, covered by a raggedy, pink blanket, sound asleep. She hoped he wasn’t suffocating from this heat like she was. His feet hung over the edge of the bed, and his hand rested on the floor. He looked like a giant in a dollhouse. Clarke didn’t understand why Abby had put Bellamy in her bed of all places, considering it was a  _ children’s bed _ . 

 

When Abby and Clarke had first found the apartment, after months of moving around, all they could afford for Clarke’s room was a child’s bed frame. Clarke didn’t really mind, she was small enough so that she could sleep comfortably. But Bellamy was a whole head taller than her, and the bed looked like it might collapse at any moment under his weight. 

 

She giggled to herself at the thought and then began to tidy the room, checking out the window occasionally for Bellamy’s Royal Guard, or Micah, or anything. Clarke gave up cleaning after a while and sat on the lumpy loveseat in the corner of the room. Her body thanked her. Clarke didn’t realize how tired she actually was until then. Slowly, she felt herself falling asleep, her body sending her into a chaos of a familiar, vivid dream. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_ It was snowing. And not like the snowfall they had been getting the past few weeks, this time it was sticking, covering the whole castle in a blanket of white. The land workers would be out soon to shovel it all into piles, but Clarke liked the perfection, the simplicity of it all. It was a calm among the chaos of Polaris.  _

 

_ There was another attack, north of the castle. The third one that week. Her father had sent some of their own personal guardsmen to Vaphis, the town under attack, to ‘take care of it.’ Clarke knew most of them would not make it back. The Light army was getting stronger every day, they had a powerful and convincing leader who possessed abilities that one could only describe as magic. Magic was something that everyone thought had gone extinct, but what this man did could not be described by logic.  _

 

_ No one could actually see what Thelonious Jaha did, he just did it. There was no cloud of smoke, no sparkles emerging from his fingertips. One minute you were there, and the next you were gone.  _

 

_ To the City of Light.  _

 

_ The City of Light was not a physical city (they had sent guardsmen to check), but a state of being. A hypnosis of sorts. People under the trance felt no pain, which made them practically invincible. Jaha had called it salvation, but in Clarke’s eyes, it had done more destruction than saving.  _

 

_ Clarke was afraid. Ever since the attacks started, her father would stay in his office or in council meetings for hours on end. Sometimes she heard him scream or cry in agitation. Sometimes she heard him throw things. Her mother was not any better. She had to control the court, and when beggars came proclaiming that the rebels had burned their homes down, all she could offer them were her prayers. Abby often locked herself in her room after such meetings, and Clarke could hear her mother’s soft cries from her own room.  _

 

_ Three days before the New Year was when Jaha and his army arrived in the capital. The National Army knew they were coming, and they prepared themselves in forts around the city’s borders. Their numbers were considerably smaller than those of the Light army, but it was pride that drove them. Otherwise, the fight would have been over before it even began. _

 

_ They arrived just before nightfall, marching in perfect, almost inhuman harmony. Clarke was not present for the battle, but many that were said that Jaha did not carry a single weapon. He walked front and center, arms raised to the heavens. That was the only weapon he ever needed.  _

 

_ The fighting lasted all throughout the day. Many evacuated the city, but those that could not afford to _ — _ or simply did not want to leave _ — _ perished in fires or bled out in the streets. Clarke and her mother were making preparations to leave, somewhere far, as the whole royal family would be hunted by the rebellion. Jake Griffin did not leave, he refused to. Clarke begged and pleaded with him, but he would not leave his country behind. That wasn’t who he was. And that was how he died. _

 

* * *

  
  


Clarke woke with a start. She went to the window, and sure enough, a carriage was approaching the house. Clarke squinted, it was dark but she could see that there was only one guard coaching and one other person inside. As the carriage drew closer, Clarke recognized the person inside as Steward Kane.

 

The carriage stopped in front of the apartment. Clarke heard the front door open. Her mother must have been waiting just as patiently as her. Kane stepped out, straightening the lapels of his coat. The guard and Kane exchanged a few words, and then Clarke heard her mother and the Steward close the front door and go up the steps. 

 

Clarke checked if Bellamy was still unconscious (he was) and went to the living room to await their guest. Abby was explaining what had happened, and that Bellamy was resting now but didn’t know how long it would be till he woke. Kane did not ask any questions, he merely listened.

 

The Steward looked frazzled, unlike his usual self. He had let his beard grow out since Clarke had last seen him, and his socks were two different colors. He must have left as soon as he heard the news. Abby immediately hurried to the kitchen and about a minute later, the tea kettle rang, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over the room. 

 

Kane cleared his throat just as Abby bustled into the living room with a silver tray of their finest teacups (the least chipped ones.) Abby cleared the table, throwing the random medical journals aside and setting the tray down. She huffed then sat down, her dress billowing around her. Kane cleared his throat again. 

 

“How long has he been unconscious for?”

 

“About an hour,” Clarke said, feeling as if it were longer than that. 

 

Kane nodded and then poured himself a cup of tea, plopping a single cube of sugar into it. He took a long sip before speaking again. “Has Bellamy told you of his plans?”

 

Abby looked to Clarke, and she just shook her head. He had barely gotten a word in before he started bleeding. “What plans?” Abby asked, reaching to pour herself tea. 

 

“He intends to appoint you, Mrs. Griffith, to the Royal Council.”

 

Abby dropped her spoon to the floor, and quickly picked it up, wiping it on her dress. “Me?” she asked, her voice at an unusually high pitch, “Why?”

 

“As a thank you for saving his life I suppose. He sees the many skills you can bring to the council. Not to mention our head physician is practically on his deathbed...” 

 

Abby nodded and then looked at Clarke, a line etched between her brows. Like mother like daughter. Clarke knew what she was thinking. Could they go back to a castle? Could Abby sit at a council again after everything?

 

“I’m going to go check on the Prince,” Clarke said suddenly, turning and going down the hall back to her bedroom. She closed the door and leaned her back to it, taking a deep sigh. 

 

“Am I in a child’s bed?” 

 

Clarke shrieked, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Bellamy was awake,  _ thankfully _ , but he had scared the holy hell out of her. He chuckled softly but winced with every intake of air. 

 

“You’re lucky you’re not on the floor. Or in a casket. Heard those are real comfy,” she said, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

 

Bellamy closed his eyes again. “I think I’ll just go unconscious again. Bye bye.” 

 

Clarke crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot on the floor restlessly, waiting for him to cut the act. She had forgotten how dramatic Princes were. Bellamy opened one eye and then gave up the ruse completely. Clarke took a vial from her desk and sat on the edge of the bed. 

 

“You need to take this.” 

 

Bellamy looked at the vial, then at Clarke. “What is it?” 

 

“Cloves, mandrake, other herbs. It’s for the pain.” It was Abby’s own recipe. The medicine was effective but often caused patients to be dizzy, nauseous, and disoriented. But Clarke didn’t want to tell Bellamy that. He’d feel the effects soon enough. 

 

Bellamy took the vial and sniffed it, scrunching his nose. “Do I have to?”

 

“If you want to survive the ride back to the castle with Kane.”

 

Bellamy didn’t hesitate and tipped the vial back, swallowing roughly. His face contorted with disgust. “So he’s here?”

 

Clarke nodded, taking the vial from him and putting it back on her desk. She sat back down. “He’s telling my mother about her new job.”

 

Realization dawned on his face. “I was just going to tell you until—” He said, waving his good arm at his wound. Bellamy tried to move, but the bed protested from under him. He sighed, defeated, and laid his head back down. He looked up, blinking a few times, awe transforming his face.

 

“Your ceiling...” 

 

Clarke looked up too. Ah, yes, her ceiling. It was perhaps one of her favorite pieces that she ever did. When they first moved into the tiny apartment, Clarke hated it. It was old, and stuffy, and got too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. It didn’t feel like home. So, when she had made enough money, she went to the market one Sunday and bought the largest bucket of blue paint she could find. And then, over the course of that first summer, she had painted the entire galaxy on her ceiling. It was a bittersweet reminder of Polaris, once known as the brightest star in all Four Kingdoms. 

 

Her mouth curved into a nostalgic smile. “Yeah...Reminds me of home.”

 

Bellamy tilted his head and looked at her. “It’s amazing.” 

 

Then the door creaked open, and Abby and Kane rushed into the room. “How are you feeling?” Abby asked first, moving right beside Clarke. She did all the normal procedures, making sure the bandaging was secure, checking for a fever and any other troublesome symptoms. 

 

“Like I just got stabbed,” Bellamy replied, an easy grin spreading on his face. The medicine must have kicked in. 

 

“Can you stand?” Kane asked, stepping into the room from the doorway. He had looked almost angry before, but now, he just looked tired.  

 

Bellamy groaned and sat himself up, swaying slightly. Clarke and Abby helped lift him up, the tiny bed creaking from all the added weight. Bellamy staggered, leaning his head on Clarke’s shoulder, almost causing both of them to collapse.  

 

“I can’t carry you by myself, Bellamy,” she said, shrugging her shoulder where his head lay. 

 

He hummed. “But my horse can.” 

 

“I’m sure she can.” 

 

Bellamy inhaled sharply, his hand twitching. “God, that hurts.”

 

Clarke clutched his good arm tighter, keeping him steady until they reached the end of the hall. All they had left was the stairs, the biggest obstacle of them all. Bellamy was still shaking like a leaf, and Clarke and Abby couldn’t help him by themselves. Kane had seen the look the two women exchanged and placed a gentle hand on Abby’s arm. 

 

“Let me help Clarke, you should pack your things that you will need for the next night or two until everything is moved.” 

 

Abby smiled gratefully, leaving Kane and Clarke to carry Bellamy. Clarke was surprised to find herself laughing, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. She was also surprised to see that the ever so serious Kane had a small smile on his face too. 

 

Eventually, somehow, they had succeeded in bringing Bellamy down the stairs and into the carriage. The Royal Guard gave his Prince a strange look, as he was covered in blood, shirtless, and drugged, but did not say anything. Clarke wiped the remaining blood off of Bellamy’s chest and shoulder and then grabbed a clean tunic that Kane had brought for him from the castle.  She pulled the tunic over his head as he released a small yelp, and then carefully put his arms through the sleeves as to not rip his stitches again. It felt like she was taking care of a small child. He leaned back once she was done, his head lolling to the side. 

 

“You won’t have to paint the stars in the castle,” Bellamy said suddenly, his voice muffled.

 

“And why is that?”

 

He moved his head again. “We have an astronomy tower. We built it for my little sister.”

 

Clarke did not know about Bellamy’s sister, he had never mentioned her until then. Now that she thought about it, no one had ever mentioned her. Clarke could imagine Bellamy as a big brother, protective and loyal, but she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her. But, that was a question for another time. 

 

Clarke started to get out of the carriage, to pack her things, when she stopped. She turned to him. “Bellamy?”

 

He only made a small noise of acknowledgment. “Why do they call you the Rebel King?” she asked, the make believe stories the children made up still echoing in her head.

 

He blinked slowly, thinking about his answer. “I led a rebellion...I won...” he answered, trailing off toward the end. His eyes drooped close.

 

Clarke hopped out of the carriage and turned to the guard. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like stretch or yawn too hard.”

 

The guard gave her a curt nod and a half-salute. Clarke stole a glance back at Bellamy before bolting up the stairs to pack away her things. Another chapter was coming to a close, but a new one was just beginning. 

 

* * *

  
  


The castle was built into a mountain—a clever defense tactic—as it proved a very difficult and intimidating task to penetrate. It’s highest pires pierced the sky like stalactites, the dark marble reflecting the pale moonlight. The castle was not asleep yet, as it was waiting for its missing Prince to return. The large iron gates at the entrance of the castle opened, and her mouth fell open. Not only was the castle much more mesmerizing up close, but it reminded her so much of the castle back home. Bellamy had just woken up from his drug-induced sleep, and the realization of where he was had finally dawned upon him. It looked like he might turn the carriage back around himself.

 

He moved the curtain from the window and groaned, “How am I supposed to explain myself to them? I look ridiculous returning like this.” 

 

Clarke peeked out the window, there was a small group of people waiting at the entrance and a few guards. They all had similar golden lions, the Blake seal, pinned to their chests. “You don’t have to explain anything. You’re the Prince after all.”

 

He looked at her for a moment, considering the truth of this, and then back out the window. He shook his head. “Not around them.”

 

The carriage stopped and Kane opened the door. “Bellamy, the council wants to hold another meeting. Regarding your...outburst,” he said, his voice ragged with fatigue, “And Abby, you are to come as well.” 

 

Abby’s eyes widened, looking between Bellamy and Kane. Her position on the council was already being tested. Kane helped them out of the carriage as a few of the guards took their trunks into the castle. A tiny feeling of panic settled in Clarke’s stomach as she watched her trunk with her gloves, book, and scarf disappear down the illuminated grand hallway. 

 

The interior of the castle was just as, if not more, beautiful than the outside. A large chandelier lit the main hall, casting strange shadows on the statues as if they might have walked out of their mold in that very moment. Upon reading the engravings, Clarke realized these were statues of Bellamy’s ancestors and the kings and queens who ruled long before the Blake family. At the end of the hall, before another great set of doors was a set of newer statues; of the late King Dante and Queen Aurora, Bellamy’s parents. 

 

The golden doors opened, revealing the main throne room. The ceiling was covered in beautiful and intricate frescoes, and Clarke almost knocked into a guard trying to take all of it in. In the center of the room was two red velvet thrones, untouched since the passing of the King and Queen. Bellamy walked behind Clarke with the group that had been waiting for him earlier. They spoke to him in half whisper and half shout, the loudest of them being a brunette named Raven. Obviously, he had done something to piss off a lot of people in the castle. Clarke was not the least bit surprised. 

 

From the throne room, they turned left, black carpet spilling down the main set of stairs. When they reached the top, Kane explained that the council room was on this floor and that the guards would show Clarke to her bedroom. Clarke pulled her mother aside as the group of council members, including Bellamy, shuffled into the room. 

 

“Mom, are you sure about this? You can just be the head physician, you don’t have to be on the council,” Clarke whispered, looking to make sure no one was listening. 

 

“If I had said no it would have been even more suspicious. I’m doing this to protect us both. Now go, they are waiting for me,” Abby replied, squeezing Clarke’s hand before disappearing into the room with the rest of the council members. 

 

Clarke hoped her mother was right. The Royal Guards did not speak as they led her up to her room. Once they reached the next floor, they stopped at the second room and opened the door. 

 

“Your room, Miss Clarke,” one of the guards said, gesturing. She nodded in thanks and they left her without another word. 

 

Clarke wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but that sure was not it. Her room was a dozen times bigger than the one back in town but slightly smaller than her room in Polaris. But it was perfect. It had everything, a  _ full-size  _ bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a terrace overlooking the city. The color scheme was also oddly fitting, most of the room was white, silver, and baby blue. She closed the door behind her and went to her trunk. She took the gloves, the book, and the scarf and hid them in her giant closet filled with brand new clothing. She hoped that her secrets would be safe there.

 

It was then that she remembered Wells. She didn’t see him again after that night on the battlefield, and Clarke assumed he had returned to town. But Wells lived in the University district, where he was studying to be a teacher. He left Polaris just before his father had led the upheaval against the crown. Wells had not even seen the worst of it, but was so determined to get Clarke and Abby both back there. His faith in Polaris was as fierce as Clarke’s lack of it; she knew it was beyond salvation. Now she worried that he’d think the worst and set up Missing posters all around town. She’d have to write to him as soon as possible, just as a precaution. 

 

Clarke took her boots off and changed into the slippers and nightgown from the closet. She wiggled her toes in the slippers, relishing in this small feeling of luxury (that she did not realize she was missing.) She decided to go to the terrace, to see what the city looked like from above, and not from the gutter. 

The night was colder than usual, and the clouds had parted to reveal a clear night sky. The rows of houses on each street were sound asleep, and for a moment, Clarke almost felt like a Princess again. But just for a moment, because someone was softly knocking on her door. She figured it was her mother, who’d come to say goodnight. 

 

“Come in,” she said, leaning on the railing, squinting in hopes of seeing their old house from there. She heard the door close gently and then footsteps. 

 

“How was the meeting?” she asked, giving up on her search. 

 

“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” a deep voice answered. 

 

Clarke snapped her head back, Bellamy was leaning on her desk, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He changed his clothes, and color had returned to his face. “Bellamy, what brings you here?” she wondered, suddenly feeling incredibly indecent in only a nightgown. She crossed her arms over her chest in a futile attempt to cover herself.

 

“I came to see if you liked your room,” he said, shoving a hand in his pocket, “And to bring you something.”

 

“Oh. Well, the room’s just fine. More than fine actually, I love it. Thank you,” she said, her face flushing. Which she assured herself was just from the cold (and nothing more.)

 

He nodded and then took something out his pocket and stepped toward her. In his palm, he had a silver lion pin for her. She looked at him and took the pin from his hands, turning it over in between her fingers. “So what does this mean then?” she asked, running her thumb over the lion’s polished face. 

 

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It’s just to show that you work here, live here. Everyone has one.” 

 

“So why is mine silver?” 

 

Bellamy’s brows drew together. “Do you not like it? I could make it bronze, or gold—”

 

“Bellamy, it’s fine,” she interrupted, “I’m just wondering why mine is different from everyone else’s.”

 

“Your mother’s is silver too,” he said, shrugging. “I just thought it was more fitting.”

 

She nodded and saw relief in his expression. “I also wanted to thank you, again, for saving me,” he added, rubbing his neck. 

 

“Of course. It’s my job,” Clarke replied, offering a small smile. For a moment he just looked at her as if he wanted to say more but instead cleared his throat, looking toward her bedroom door.

 

“I ought to go. It’s getting late.”

 

“I’ll walk you out then,” she said, gesturing toward the door. 

 

Before he left, Clarke stopped him, gently holding onto his wrist. “Please don’t open your stitches while you sleep. I finally get to sleep in a _ full-size _ bed tonight.”

 

Bellamy grinned. “I won’t. And if I have an itch?”

 

She raised a brow, remembering what she had told him back at his tent. “Did you not hear the part about the bed?”

 

Bellamy pouted. Always one for the dramatic. “I thought I could call you.” 

 

Clarke rolled her eyes, trying to stifle the smile on her face. “That was back when I was sleeping on a cot and had nothing better to do.”

 

Bellamy frowned. “I am your prince. I should be your first priority, Miss Griffith.” Clarke thought he was being serious at first and was about to offer her rebuttal when he grinned again. Clarke began to shut the door, and Bellamy put a hand to stop her. 

 

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

 

“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

 

She closed the door finally, listening to Bellamy’s footsteps echo down the hall until he was gone. She took her slippers off, quickly blew out the lanterns, and laid in her bed. For a strange reason, Clarke felt like she had just run miles. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her face felt hot. Maybe she was getting sick. Or maybe, just maybe, this was because of Bellamy, she dared to think. She turned on her side, her heartbeat slowing and her face cooling. It couldn’t be because of Bellamy, she convinced herself. That was  _ ridiculous _ . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked this chapter, please leave a comment below! and thank you!


	5. lead the horse to water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He patted the pin in his pocket and made the trek up to Clarke’s room, grinning the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me this far! i really enjoyed writing this chapter and i hope you enjoy! again, don't worry about typos, bc I usually catch them as I reread and.. enjoy!!

Bellamy tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked back to his room. His boots echoed softly on the great stone walls, and looking down the hallway, he could see that he was completely and utterly alone. He found himself searching for a guard, a soldier posted safely at each corner, but his brain clicked after a short moment – there was no need for a guard detail in the servant’s quarters. He ground his teeth, brow furrowing. That's what Clarke and her mother were now. Servants. Nurses, yes, but still servants. Considered disposable by the castle, without need of protection.

Bellamy felt himself frown. Clarke didn’t act like a nurse, even though she was a good one. She certainly didn’t act like she was afraid of him, and she didn’t grovel at his feet like so many servants tended to do around the castle. He followed the hallway nearly to the end, then turned, facing the massive, carved window that led to a wide terrace that emerged from the side of the mountain.

Despite being built into a wall of rock and stone, the castle had many outer terraces and tunneled hallways that jutted out over the city. Bellamy’s heart thudded anxiously in his chest as he found the end of the terrace, leaning his forearms on the marble railing that framed the balcony. 

He blinked hard out at the horizon, at the treeline in the distance and the stars that whirled endlessly through the black sky. Despite everything, despite the chaos of the battlefield and the suffocation of the royal title, Arkadia seemed to bustle on without him. Little lights emerged from the city below, tiny and winking like fireflies, and men and women bustled about the streets, chatting and laughing and watching late-night street performers pipe out their last tunes on their flutes and drums.

The night was hot, but a cool breeze shuddered past him and chilled his warming cheeks. Bellamy almost smiled – to be so carefree like those dancers and musicians must have been  _ wonderful _ . To live without duty to a throne or fear of execution — such a life would have pleased Bellamy to no end. He would gladly give up the throne and sprawling marble hallways if he were to relieve himself of the ongoing stress of ruling, but Bellamy was sworn to the throne by blood.  _ Not _ by choice. 

Kane ruled in his place, of course, making most major decisions, but he was hardly more than a seatwarmer for the throne. Bellamy had until he was twenty-four to find a wife and become king, or Kane would ascend to the throne completely, and the Blake name would be forgotten.

As much as Bellamy craved freedom, he also craved redemption. He had betrayed his family’s name for too long to give up on the throne entirely. As long as Bellamy was alive, he would ensure the safety of the Blake family line, and each line after that. If he was to be king, he was to be a  _ good _ king. There was no doubt about that. The wind whipped across his face again, ruffled his hair, smoothing its icy fingers through his black curls just like his mother had once done. 

Bellamy sighed, stepping away from the balcony, and finished the trek to his rooms near the top of the mountain. His room was the safest, nearly impenetrable, and shielded at all times by two guards who stood vigilant outside his door. Bellamy waved to them as he passed, forcing a small smile before he disappeared into the chambers that called themselves a bedroom.

He shut the door carefully behind him and let out a long, slow breath. His eyes trailed upwards, following the vaulted ceilings to the top, where wooden beams spidered into a point. The mountain was quite literally above him and all around him. The only part of his room that was outside was the terrace, wide enough to hold a small party on if he so pleased.

He pressed his shoulders against the front door, dropping his head into his hands. He hadn’t made any major decisions yet and he was already  _ exhausted _ . Other than the council meetings and his little spell at the Griffith house, nothing particularly exciting had happened. Maybe he was just tired from the wound. He wouldn’t have expected to wear himself out so swiftly, but councilman Yorke had gathered his wits and given Bellamy a good tongue-lashing for his actions earlier in the day. 

Bellamy rose from his position by the door and moped across his room, eyeing the polished floors and mahogany furniture with a strange feeling of distaste. He’d never disliked his bedroom before, but after seeing Clarke’s old one, with all it’s personality and paint and worn-out history, his own seemed too polished, to impersonal. 

Bellamy lifted a worn book off his nightstand, frowning at it. It was marked with an elegant placeholder, a sheet of engraved silver. He was startlingly reminded of Clarke’s home, where books were marked with spoons and used teabags. Where the door to her study was coated in layers upon layers of paint, chipping scrapes of oil, loops and swirls of chalk. He set the book back down and drifted to his bathroom, eyes drooping. There was no use dwelling on such trivial matters when he was asleep on his feet, so he resigned to a quick wash.

Peeling his tunic off, he examined himself in his shining mirror. The bandages wound around his stomach were stark white, new, and there was hardly any blood to be seen. He almost wished that the wound would have been his first and only, but the plane of his chest was pocked with raised scars from years of battle and rigorous training. His back didn’t look much better, the raised ridges running under his shoulderblades and spine reminding him of wars hard-won and respect well-earned. 

He’d earned these scars fighting with and for his people. They were a living reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to in order to protect his kingdom, and despite all of Kane’s reservations about him diving into battle, Bellamy’s heart remained true. He’d said as much to Councilman Yorke earlier, during their first altercation. He would  _ gladly _ fight and die for his men. 

Bellamy scooped a rag from a cupboard under his washbasin and dipped it in the water. He scraped it over his chest, arms, and back, scrubbing until his dark skin glowed red and raw. He shucked off his trousers and followed the routine all the way to his feet before tracking to his closet and pulling a black nightshirt over his head. He found a loose pair of trousers to match, then shuffled to his bed. 

Crawling underneath the mountain of furs that served as his blankets, he laid on his back and tried to fall asleep. But despite the fatigue that turned his limbs to lead, he couldn’t find the strength to close his eyes, much less face the nightmares that had plagued his dreams since he’d been stabbed by Roan.

Staring up at the ceiling, he thought about the council meeting.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy followed the crowd of councilmen through the war room and into the round, chair-filled council room. He was pleased to see most of the chairs filled, not by idling councilmen but by servants of his own castle. The stablemaster sat uneasily, in a chair, rubbing grimy, scar-bitten hands across his knees. The head chef herself stood a few meters away, poised like a panther with her long arms crossed over her chest. Kane led Abby to a chair near the front, whispering something in  her ear, then took his own seat at the head of the room. 

Bellamy grinned wolfishly at Councilman Yorke as he passed. Yorke moved away like he'd been slapped, and Bellamy took his own seat, pleased with himself. Once the chairs were filled and the room was settled, the head councilman rose from his seat. He clasped his hands in front of his waist, his form all but obscured by his long black robes.

“Your Majesty,” he said, dipping his head. “We have heeded your request to hire new council members. The leading practitioners of almost every profession have agreed to join the council.”

The councilman swept his arm to the side, gesturing at the filled chairs. The head chef glared at Bellamy. He wondered momentarily if he'd interrupted her dinner preparations, but the thought was silenced by the councilman’s voice. “Abigail Griffith is attending as the medical representative in place of Master Delaney. He is not sound of mind.”

Bellamy almost snorted. If being  _ old  _ made the head medic insane, then Kane was well on his way to crazy. Bellamy nodded instead, expressing his gratitude. 

And then Yorke stood. Fisting his hands inside his black robes, he leveled a scorching glare at the prince. “Your Highness.” He said shortly. “We must discuss your previous outburst. We intended to have this discussion with you in private, but at your insistence, half the castle is in this room to stand witness.”

Bellamy propped his chin on his fist, doing his best to look bored. 

He'd always hated meetings. He'd attended his first when he was twelve, to sit and watch his father conduct business, and he'd nearly fallen asleep standing up. He'd never been a decision man, someone who planned before he acted. Sitting through meetings, no matter how lengthy they were, was always something Bellamy dreaded.

Yorke rattled on about respect and dignity and sportsmanship. Bellamy chewed a cuticle on his thumb, nodding when he was supposed to, all his concentration focused on keeping himself awake. His chair was disturbingly comfortable, and the councilman’s drone was strangely soothing, and he wondered how long until he could slip into his bed before —

His head snapped back to attention ( _ he’d dozed off _ ) as the fat councilman cuffed him over the ear. “Prince Bellamy,” he said darkly. “I take it you heard my last statement?” 

Bellamy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and used a foot to kick Yorke’s legs away. “You were telling everyone how wonderful I am?” He tried.

Yorke scowled. “Allow me to repeat myself.” He growled. “You have a penchant for acting like a child, Bellamy. The council has agreed to move your wedding day as punishment for your outbursts and rash decisions.” Yorke gestured vaguely at Bellamy’s injured side. 

“You must find a queen  _ before _ you turn twenty-four. You have eight months, Your Majesty. We’ve also sent a battalion of scouts out to the Azgedan borders to negotiate resuming this war.”

White-hot rage boiled in Bellamy’s stomach and he rose from his chair, towering over the fat councilman. “The council?” He asked thickly. “The  _ entire  _ council agreed to this?”

Bellamy had seen the soldiers, men and women, clinging to each other. They'd  _ just _ come home. People had lost families in the war, and Yorke had singlehandedly pulled them back into it. Bellamy let out a growl and leveled a glare at Yorke that could have scalped a timberwolf.

Yorke took a step back, frowning. Bellamy crossed his arms over his chest, sending a dull ache through his side. “Well, the senior council.” Admitted Yorke. He probably meant the part of the council that was smothered in black robes.

Bellamy grinned wolfishly. “And Miss Griffith,” he said, casting his gaze towards Abby. The nurse straightened, but her eyes remained stony, fixed on Yorke. 

“Do you agree to this?”

Abby shrugged. “The marriage pact has no effect on the nurses of the city. If Kane becomes king in your place, the nurses will serve him just the same.” Bellamy blinked at her. She'd straightened minimally, lifted her chin, tossed her hair back over her shoulder. She looked  _ regal _ , eyeing Yorke with a strange glint in her irises. A soft murmur waved over the crowd of people.

“But as for the war? No,” she said, lifting her voice. The crowd hushed. “I do not agree with the law. At all. My daughter should not have to return to the war at the whims of a man who will never see the terror of the front lines.” She cut a glance at Kane, whose gaze was steady and steely as her own. She folded her hands in her lap, nodded once, and twitched a smile at Yorke’s purpling face.

Bellamy turned, addressing the room. “Esteemed council,” he said heavily, making sure to look each newcomer in the eye. Raven and Miller sat side-by-side in the corner, respective heads of mechanics and battle strategy. “You may not be aware of the castle policies, so I will do my best to inform you.”

He gestured at Yorke, and the councilman returned to his chair, seething. “The council has virtually no power over me.” This sent a ripple of unease over the room, but he silenced it with his next words. “You will be personal advisers and confidantes to me, but you will  _ not _ make my decisions  _ for _ me. Kane and I remain the ultimate decision makers. You simply advise me, help me see all sides of one story.”

Bellamy turned towards Yorke. “Master Yorke,” he said. “This is twice today you've attempted to undermine my position as your sovereign.” Yorke’s mouth opened in disgust, then closed. Bellamy bit back a smile, glancing at the corner of the room. Raven coughed into her hand as Miller shuttered away a laugh, pretending to be very interested in his boots.

“You disobeyed my instructions to include more voices in your council by ignoring their opinions and decisions and furthermore, you've called me irresponsible and childish on more than one occasion. I tried to reason with you and you shut me out.” He paced back to his chair. “I cannot have a council made up of men and women who don't respect me as a friend and a person, much less as a prince.” 

Yorke paled.

The room grew silent. 

Bellamy cleared his throat. “Councilman Yorke, you're officially relieved of your position on this council. I will arrange for your departure from the castle in the morning. Say your goodbyes, sleep well tonight. You will return to the city tomorrow.”

Yorke shot to his feet, an impressive maneuver considering his rotundity. “You can't do that!” He shouted, his voice a strangled croak. 

Bellamy turned, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “I can do whatever the hell I want when men like you put my people in danger.” His hands balled into fists at his sides, even though he'd have loved nothing more than to pummel Yorke senseless. 

“Yorke,” he said softly, almost too softly to be considered calm. “If your negotiation succeeds and you bring Arkadia back into the war, I will personally see to it that you are placed on the front lines, right next to me. Count yourself lucky if Roan doesn't kill that entire envoy, because if he does, I won't be the only one getting speared through the ribs.”

Bellamy’s anger pooled like flame in his belly. “This meeting is adjourned,” he said, then let his feet carry him out of the room. He was too upset to visit Clarke like he had planned, so he journeyed down to the quarters of the castle jewelers, a duo of young women who collected precious gems and embedded them in jewelry, crowns, robes, and even weapons. 

“Miss Theresa?” He called, pushing past their open door. The room was dark, lit by a tiny, flickering brazier, and the head jeweler emerged from a corner of the room, eyes enlarged tenfold by the enormous spectacles perched on the crooked bridge of her nose. 

“Your Majesty!” She said, sweeping into a curtsy. Bellamy nodded once at her, smiling. “What brings you here?” She asked, and Bellamy shrugged.

“I need a favor,” he said. “Do you have any extra servant’s pins?” The knot of rage loosened in his stomach, replaced by something he could only describe as revulsion. He was exhausted, but the news of the envoy would likely keep him awake tonight. 

Theresa nodded quickly. “Of course,” she breathed. Wandering across the room, she yanked out an old drawer that rattled like a snake. She scooped up a pin, a lion’s roaring face atop a fan-like mane. 

“Could you make it silver?” He wondered, and Theresa nodded. He thought of Clarke and her mother, their cramped little home. 

“Yes I can, Your Majesty. It should only take me a minute.” She wandered past him into a back room and a fire roared to life, washing the room in an orange glow. Bellamy took the moment to unbutton the first few inches of his tunic, twisting his head to check the bandages wrapped tightly around his side. A smile twitched across his mouth, remembering his promise to call Clarke in case of an itch. 

But there was no blood soaked through the white fabric, and it remained tightly wound, a sheath around his torso. He buttoned his shirt back up just in time for Theresa to make a reappearance, clutching a newly-silver pin in her gloved hands. 

Theresa had been the jeweler since before his father had become king, when his grandmother had ruled the Arkadian lands that existed before she ceded the northern country to the Azgedan queen. Her hands were baked and her skin was a warm, dark brown, her hair arranged in tight coils around her head in a halo. Her face was lined with wrinkles, cracked with age, and despite it all, she smiled with an almost visible fervor as he took the pin and dropped it in his pocket. 

“Thank you, kind lady,” he said gracefully, dipping into as much of a bow as he could muster with the stab wound in his side. Theresa grinned at him. Like Clarke, she wasn't fearful of him or his title. She respected him, unlike the councilman, but she didn't fear him. 

“Anything for you, Bellamy.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “I remember making your first rattle. A silly little thing, ceramic with those blue ribbons.” Her voice was ancient, like two sheets of paper sliding across one another. “You shattered it the moment I put it in your fat little hands.” She clicked her tongue, laughing. “Just threw it across the floor.”

Bellamy let himself smile as she led him out. She stood in the doorway, hands settled on her hips. “Petulant little bugger, you were.” She waved at him as he walked backwards down the hall. “It's good to see you again, though.”

Bellamy waved back. “Always a pleasure, Theresa.” He called. He was at the end of the hall when he stopped, drawn by her papery voice. 

“Bellamy?” She called.

“Yes?” 

“Why the silver? Why not gold, like the rest of us?” 

Bellamy looked. Sure enough, a gold lion’s head glinted at her left breast pocket, just barely visible in the flickering firelight. He considered her question. 

And then he smiled. Theresa offered him one back, cracked lips spreading across her weathered face. “It’s a girl, is it?” She asked, broken grammar and all. “Don't worry, I won't tell.” She winked at him. “Just make sure you ain't getting yourself into trouble. Can't afford to go making you some bejeweled handcuffs, Bellamy Blake.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him, but her eyes remained playful. “You might be the prince, but believe it or not, I wiped that royal little tush from time to time.”

Bellamy laughed, deep and real — welcome distraction from the worry that threatened to overtake him, rising in his chest like a distressed horse. “Love you too, Theresa.” 

He patted the pin in his pocket and made the trek up to Clarke’s room, grinning the whole time.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes, the sky was bright and his room was pleasantly warm. A bird was perched on his balcony, singing. 

He stretched carefully, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, and padded across the room, yawning. The sun threw tendrils of warmth across the room, shining through his massive, open windows. The room, carved out of the mountain itself, shone brightly under the sun’s rays, sending little glimmers of fluorescence across the black-and-gold marble floors. Bellamy tracked to his bathroom, where he rucked up the hem of his shirt.

His bandages were clean. He smiled fiercely at himself, proud that he'd managed to keep his wound closed through the night. Repeating his old routine, he scrubbed across his body with a wet rag and pulled wet fingers through his hair. Using the water his staff had perfumed with rose petals and spruce needles, he somewhat tamed his mess of curls. It wasn't a proper bath, but it was the best he could do with a stab wound in his side.

Bellamy fished a white tunic out of his closet and threw on black pants, sliding his feet into his worn, familiar boots. The smell of breakfast was wafting up from the kitchens, and his stomach was beginning to rumble. The sooner he got down to eat, the better. He had exiled councilmen to deal with and an envoy to worry about. 

It was only when he arrived at the eating hall that he stopped. The room was split into two large sections; servants tables and the tables reserved for royalty. Kane was seated alone on the latter side, scooping eggs into his mouth, and a horde of servants were chattering with one another on the former, eating happily. Bellamy’s eyes immediately found that familiar head of blonde hair, and a flutter of calm lanced through him before he found his feet carrying him towards Kane.

Kane nodded at him as he approached. “Do you have a minute to talk about the meeting?” The steward asked after swallowing a mouthful of food. Bellamy stopped, standing across the table from Kane.

Bellamy shrugged. “There really isn't much to discuss, Marcus. All we can do now is wait for word of the envoy to come back.” 

Kane considered this. “Later, then. We’ll talk later.” He waved at the kitchens. “Go eat. You just got back from a war, for heaven’s sakes.” 

Bellamy nodded. “You don't have to tell me twice.” His feet found the kitchen, where he stacked a plate high with bacon and eggs and freshly-baked bread rolls and rich grape jelly. 

When he emerged, however, he didn't carry himself towards Kane, eating alone at the tables for royalty. Instead he found himself moving towards that head of blonde hair, hair that was coiled into a tight braid at the base of the owner's neck.

A few of the castle staff gasped and scurried away, but she remained firmly planted at her seat, shoveling her breakfast into her mouth. He slid into the seat next to her, setting his plate down. “It's not going to go anywhere, you know.” He pointed out.

She lifted her head, frowning at him with a mouth full of food. She chewed, swallowed, then stabbed a roll from his plate with her fork. “Haven't had a proper meal in months.” She said, stuffing the bread between her teeth.

Bellamy nodded. “I see.” He picked up a roll and took a bite, highly aware of the gaping staff around him. 

“Prince Bellamy,” said a young woman, her voice deathly quiet. He looked up, meeting her eye. She couldn't have been older than eighteen, and her flame-red hair was gathered atop her head in a precarious knot. He lifted a brow.

“Hmm?” 

“Shouldn't you be sitting with the steward?” 

Bellamy blinked at her, considering this. He swallowed his breakfast and spread his fingers across the marble tabletop. “Not at all.” He flashed her a debonair grin, the kind he'd perfected after years and years of countless parties and masquerades, courtesy of his mother. He'd often come to relish the way women would part before him like a stone dropped in water, and despite his age and so-called maturity, he'd never felt any different.

“I've been fighting in a war for the past two months,” he said gravely, eyeing her empty plate. He scooped up another roll, clutching it like it was his last lifeline. “I figured the least I could do was have a good chat with Arkadia’s unsung heroes.”

The girl blushed. He grinned again. “What's your name?” Clarke tensed next to him, her shoulder bumping his own. 

“Zoe Monroe,” she said. 

“And what's your job here?”

“I do the laundry, sir.” She extended her hands, showing him the gnarled scars that twisted her knuckles into knots. He took her fingers, examining them.

“These are from the washboards?” He asked. 

She bit her lip. “Yes.”

He dropped her hand. “Tell your superior that the prince is offering full funding for new washboards.” Zoe smiled at him, shyly, but said nothing. “And be careful with your hands, okay? You only get one pair.”

He turned his palms over, momentarily setting his roll back on his plate. “Trust me, I know.” His hands were cracked and weathered from years of abuse, scars marking knuckles too-often split and palms too-often bled dry from blood pacts and medical examinations. 

Bellamy turned back to his food, the jelly-filled roll suddenly supremely interesting. He took a large bite, letting the jelly ooze over his fingers before he licked it off, humming. 

Clarke bumped his leg again. “You're filthy.” She said, mouth full of eggs. 

“You're one to talk.” She glared at him. “I'm not the one eating like a horse.” He picked up his fork and tackled his eggs, scooping them towards him like he was a pirate and they were gold. 

“Oh, shut up.” Her knee clacked against his own and Zoe rose from her spot. The other members of the castle staff resumed their conversations, laughing and chattering like Bellamy had never been there to begin with. 

“Or what?” He asked playfully. 

Clarke considered this, brow crinkling. He was about to comment on the expression when she plucked up a piece of bacon and flicked it at him. It spattered against the front of his white shirt, mercifully landing on the floor, but a small, yellow spot of grease was spreading against the left side of his chest. 

Bellamy scowled. “Not bad. Your aim is a bit off, but with a little practice, you might just be able to — “ he paused, broke off a piece of his own bacon, and dropped it down the back of her gray dress. She shrieked and shot to her feet, scrabbling at her back. Soon, the food had fallen through her clothing and landed on the floor again, and Bellamy laughed. 

She cuffed his ear and sat back down, grumbling. But his laugh was silenced as two councilmen, robed in black, burst into the dining hall. He ducked his head, gripping the table as he remembered the council’s release of the envoy to Azgeda. His anger, roiling like a snake in his stomach, must have shown, because Clarke’s hand found the space between his shoulder blades, a strangely comforting pressure.

“What happened at the meeting?” She asked again, an echo of her question from the night before. 

“An idiot councilman sent an envoy of thirteen men to the Azgedan border to negotiate a return to war. He didn't like my surrender.”

Clarke’s mouth dropped open as the councilmen took their seats on either side of Kane, neither one eating. 

“What happens if the envoy succeeds?” She asked.

“We go back to war. To the front lines.”

Clarke tensed beside him, digging her fingernails into her knees. “And if they fail?”

Bellamy’s mouth pulled into a grim line, his shoulders tight with worry. “Those thirteen men are as good as dead.”

He didn't have to say the rest to know Clarke understood, because she glanced at him with terror in her eyes. Roan wasn't known for his unending mercy. There was a sliver of a chance the Arkadian men would make it home alive, but only a sliver. 

Bellamy’s food suddenly didn't seem very appetizing. Pushing his plate away from him, he propped his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, sighing. “Just one day of peace is all I ask for. One day.”

Clarke’s fingers tightened into a fist between his shoulders and she stood, pulling him up with her. “You need to relax,” she said, lips twitching playfully. “Mom says people heal slower when they're anxious.”

He eyed her carefully. “You're worried about my wound?” He asked.

She nodded gravely. “Yes.  _ Only _ your wound. I don't want to see you in the infirmary any more than I have to.”

Bellamy tapped her cheek with a fingertip. “I'll take that into consideration. I plan to have a headache, next week, around Thursday. And then maybe, after that, I'll sprain my ankle.” He made air quotations around the word ‘sprain’, adding a debonair wink for good measure.

She scowled and knocked his shoulder with her fist. “No news of the envoy has come, right? So until then, you need a distraction.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“No, it's not what you're thinking.” Clarke said. “Take me on a tour of the castle,” she amended. 

Bellamy glanced at Kane, who was watching him carefully. Kane nodded, and Bellamy let his face break into a grin. “Alright."

 

* * *

 

After some internal deliberation, he decided to take Clarke to the stables. After ushering the stablemaster and the grooms away, he led her into the candlelit hallway, wrinkling his nose against the stench of manure and equine musk.

“That's nice, Bellamy,” she said next to him. “A girl asks you to give her a tour and you take her to the smelliest room in the castle?”

He frowned at her. The light from the braziers sliced across her cheeks, outlining the curve of her lips and the dark circles under her eyes. “It's an acquired taste, Miss Griffith.” Horses stamped inside their pens, whinnying softly as he passed. He wondered if they'd been fed yet, and glancing inside the pen of a particularly rowdy bay mare, he realized they hadn't. 

“Help me feed them?” He asked. 

Clarke wrinkled her nose. “Never.”

Bellamy faked a sigh, wiping away imaginary sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Guess I’ll have to do all the heavy lifting by myself. I might even strain my wound, if I'm lucky.” He started towards a basket of hay, and Clarke groaned behind him.

She caught up to him, grabbing his arm. “I hate you,” was all she said as she scooped a basket over her arm, but her mouth had curved into a smile. 

Bellamy grinned and dumped some hay into the bay mare’s stall. She nickered at him, and he stroked her nose before moving on, repeating the process at the  stall of a powerful brown stallion. Across the way, Clarke was wrestling a black mare’s wandering nose. 

Before she could get the hay into the trough, the mare would bat her hand away, snuffling for the hay itself. “Patience is a virtue,” Clarke scolded, and the mare whinnied back, stubborn. 

Bellamy smiled, moving on to his next stall. “I see you've found your spirit animal,” he said, chuckling. “You're both stubborn as mules.”

Clarke threw a piece of hay at him. 

When Bellamy found Vesta’s stall, Clarke had finally moved on to her next horse, a tawny stallion with a white nose. Vesta whinnied at him, tossing her head back. The grooms had finally managed to scrub away the painted rings around her snout, but her mane hadn't been trimmed. 

Bellamy brushed his fingers over Vesta’s neck. “Hello,” he said quietly, and she stamped her hoof. Clarke appeared behind him, having fed all her horses. 

“I remember you,” she said, reaching out to touch Vesta’s nose. The piebald mare jerked her head away, skittish, but after a moment, she stared Clarke down and allowed herself to be pet. “I’m glad to see Misha returned you.”

_ Misha? _ Bellamy wondered, before Vesta snorted and nudged his head with her snout. He took a step away from her stall, frowning. “Impatient.” He chided, dumping some hay into her trough. She whinnied, shaking her mane, then mowed away at her breakfast, chomping noisily. 

“She's like you,” Clarke countered after a while, grinning at him. “Only cares about her food.”

Bellamy’s mouth twisted into a fake smile. “Ha ha.” He leaned against Vesta’s stall, resting his chin over his crossed forearms. He watched her eat happily, snorting softly every once in a while. 

“Has she always been your horse?” Clarke asked after a few moments of silence.

Bellamy shook his head. “No. She was abandoned at a grounder camp just before we came back to the city. The only horse left behind.” 

Clarke clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “I can't imagine why. She's got a good personality.”

Bellamy shrugged. “They probably don't want horses with personality. They're soldiers, not pets.”

Vesta flicked her tail, smacking her lips as she devoured the last of the hay. She lifted her head, black eyes wide and intelligent, and stared past Bellamy, towards the door of the stables. As if she'd predicted it, two councilmen burst into the room.

Bellamy recognized the younger one, Councilman Green, the boy who'd defended him at the first meeting. The other was taller, thinner, like he hadn't eaten in weeks. 

Green stopped walking, boots scraping across the floor of the stable. 

“Your Highness,” said the young councilman, and the two swept into identical bows. 

Bellamy straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. “Any news on the envoy?”

Green nodded gravely. Bellamy’s stomach dropped to his feet. 

“They failed in the negotiation, sir. Roan refuses to return to war without your explicit approval.”

Bellamy’s chest tightened. It was too good to be true. 

Green continued. “But sir,” he said, breath catching in his chest. “He slaughtered the envoy. Every last one of them is dead. The only person to make it back is in the infirmary right now. He's lost enough blood to knock him out, I’m afraid.”

Bellamy gritted his teeth. “Green,” he said, and the young man slanted a careful glance up at him. 

“Take me to to the survivor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo.. I can't wait for tonight's episode. what did you think? leave a comment, some kudos! thanks for reading!


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